


The Library

by cas_loves_dean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Child Abuse, Hurt Dean Winchester, Implied/Referenced Torture, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, slight OOC Dean, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-21 20:16:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 43
Words: 58,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1562648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cas_loves_dean/pseuds/cas_loves_dean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has been kidnapped at the age of five by Alastair, a horrible child-abuser who imprisons him in his house for years.<br/>All it takes is one allowed visit to the library to turn Dean's life around. All it takes is a whispered, gravely, and heavenly voice from behind him to question everything he knows. All it takes is a man in a trenchcoat to grip him tight and raise him from perdition. </p>
<p>*CHILD ABUSE IS HORRIFIC AND WRONG AND I WISH THAT IT DID NOT EXIST. I APOLOGIZE DEEPLY FOR OFFENDING ANYONE WITH THE CONTENT IN THIS STORY. THERE ARE SEMI GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF CHILD ABUSE. ALL RIGHTS BELONG TO ERIC KRIPKE AND HIS TEAM OF GENIUS WRITERS*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Lightbulb

**Author's Note:**

> I love anybody who reads this, you are all wonderful human beings! 
> 
> Thank you so much xx
> 
> -SJ

Dean can remember the day very clearly. It was sunny. The clouds were fluffy and pregnant with rain; the tree leaves danced to the Wind’s symphony. He can recall with vivid detail the sun, bright like an inferno, annoying the residents of Lawrence, Kansas and burning their skin. He can see Sam’s pouty, cherubic face peering out at him from inside their house. He can hear his mother’s sing-song voice saying, 

“Have a good day at school, baby!” 

He knows his best friend, Benny, was yelling at him, “Hurry up, Dean! The bus is leaving!” 

He remembers the bus crawling away, like a monstrous caterpillar slugging along the road, so slow but yet so fast to his five year old self. 

_This is bad. This is really, really, really bad._

_Dad is gonna be so mad, oh man, oh man._

_I can’t go back. Nope. Mom will be so angry. Stupid. I’m so stupid. I have to walk to school. Which way did they go again?_

_I walk down the sidewalk, avoiding cracks and dragging my feet. I’m busy counting the number of pinecones on the ground when I trip. I’m sprawled out on the stupid pavement, and just as I’m about to get up, rough, smelly hands reach out from nowhere to cover my mouth. My body turns to ice, like the one time I tried to stuff myself in Benny’s fridge during hide-and-seek. I scream around the pasty hand, squirming and kicking as they drag me into their car. I want Mommy! I want Daddy! Sammy! Benny! Mrs. Collins! Someone help me!_

_“Such a pretty boy.” The stranger hisses in my ear. He sounds like children bleeding and the earth burning and the sun falling out of the sky. He sounds like the Devil. I know he must be. I’m being shoved into a white box of a car, hands still choking me and my lungs burning like fire. I’m crying now, even though, I know big boys don’t cry. Soldiers don’t cry. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry! My nose is bubbling and running like Sammy’s does when he has those tantrums of his. I hear a rip-rip-rip sound coming from behind me and then my mouth is covered with something sticky and smooth. Duct tape, my brain supplies. “You’re gonna be so fun to play with, sweetheart.” And then the door is shut._

Dean knows he shouldn’t think of these things. Alastair says the way they came together was…unconventional, but it was God’s plan and his parents just didn’t know that yet. 

Dean also knows God isn’t real. He knows it deep down in the pit of his stomach, in the soles of his feet, in the awful stinging of his backside, and the blood that trickles down from everywhere. He lost his faith the first time Alastair laid a hand on the parts of him no one was ever supposed to touch. He used to pray before he went to bed--before. He remembers the angel protecting him on his nightstand, standing silent and vigilant. 

Alastair talks about angels a lot. He mumbles about the fucking biblical apocalypse and how the end is coming as he touches Dean. Dean has already met the end. The end is how he gushes crimson liquid from his mouth sometimes, when he gets sick. The end is knowing he will never see his parents again. The end is forgetting what color your room is. Death would be a relief, he is positive about this. Nothing can be worse, he thinks. 

The only reason Dean hasn’t stolen one of Alastair’s belts and hanged himself from the rafters is because he wouldn’t wish this on anyone else. It is his job to never allow this to happen to anyone else. It is his burden to make sure that Alastair never breaks another living soul. 

He has lost track of the years; he never got to telling time in school before he was taken. He watches as his body changes. His chin gets rough and scratchy, his voice gets deeper and he gets taller. Every time he gets a chance to look in the shards of glass left on the floor from the time Alastair hyperventilated and shattered the only mirror, he sees a strong jawline, weary green eyes and dark under-eye circles. He has strong muscles in his chest area, due to years of labor and other activities. His feet are big now, which is such a childish realization, but it makes him feel normal somehow. He guesses he should have graduated by now, before. 

He often wonders what Sammy looks like. Has he grown yet? He used to think Sam would never grow. Dean knows Sam probably has a pretty girl now. Maybe he even has a wife, but he can’t tell if he should be old enough yet. He tries to picture Mom, all wrinkled and old like Grandma. He sometimes smiles at that thought. He tries so very hard to imagine what school must be like. He visualizes picking up a book and learning how to read. He likes to imagine going to birthday parties and actually knowing how old he is turning, every time January 25th came around. He thinks about Dad coming back from the service; about how he would smile and pick up Sammy and whirl him around. Dean is okay because his family is okay. Family is everything. 

More often than not, when Alastair leaves him alone with the sole flickering bulb, he is so scared. He is frightened every day because he doesn’t know if the next time he is left to bleed out he’ll recover. He is afraid that the rancid food slipped under the door will stop being delivered, and he will die hungry for food and escape. He is petrified with the fear of Alastair getting Sammy. Dean has to live, because if he lets go and submits to the dark, Sam will be taken. Dean believes this almost as much as he believes that God isn’t real. 

He sits now, in the shadows of that one goddamn light bulb. It hangs from the decrepit ceiling, flashing its weak beams on the mess of a man below. He stares at the paintings he drew on the walls as a child, after he begged for weeks for colors. There is baby Sam, with his scruffy brown hair and red, wrinkly face held in Mom’s arms. There is Dad, with black boots and his uniform. He is wearing a smile, something which used to seldom grace his face. Dean hopes Dad has learned to smile by now. Benny is in the picture, too, with blue shorts and a red shirt. And above the family he’s drawn, there is an angel. The angel is bathed in yellow, with black wings and a white robe. Dean has tried so many times to scratch that angel off the damn wall. He only succeeds in making his fingers bleed. 

He slumps against the grimy wall, staring at the picture in his cramped room in the basement. Like a clap of thunder, the door slams open with a force so powerful it shakes the room. Alastair can be unforgiving in strength, but he can also be so gentle, precise in his graceful, careful movements as he laces Dean’s body with cuts. He stares at Alastair, showing no emotion while internally preparing for whatever he has in store. 

“Today, as I was leaving the house, I looked at the library.” Alastair croons. “I saw the pretty, little children carrying their sacks of paper out of there, and I realized, you’re a dumb piece of shit and you need to know how to read. I want you to be able to actually talk to me like an adult instead of a Neanderthal, got it?” He smiles, his rotten teeth jutting out from his unnatural grin.

“Yes,” Dean grits his teeth, “Sir.”

“Tomorrow, you are going to take a shower, cause you look like a homeless man, and you will walk across the street with the library card I will give you. You will say nothing to anyone. You will smile at everybody. You will look at the shelves and search for something you can read. You will check out the Bible so you can read about the End of Days, so you can understand why you are lucky, for the end is coming! You will see how Lucifer will protect us and how we will watch together as the world burns. If you say one thing about us, if you so much as look wrong at somebody and they suspect anything, I will steal your brother away from your house and make you cut his limbs off yourself. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Dean grinds out, jaw clenched and body tense with terror and excitement. 

 “Now why don’t you come thank me properly then, hmm?”

Later, when Alastair has left and Dean is left alone again, he really thinks about what this means. He can see the sun again. He can feel the breeze on his skin again. He can see different faces. He can read books. He can use a fancy bathroom and actually look at himself in the mirror fully and for more than a few seconds. He has never been more enthused. Dean sits up a little straighter. He closes his eyes in contentment. He relaxes his body. He smiles for the first time in years, his cheeks slowly drawing up in a show of glee. This is happening. He is going to see the sky once more. 

In the morning, when the door clangs open and Alastair steps in, he has something clutched in his dirty hands. It gleams in the light from the broken bulb, flickering in the dank and disgusting room. He smiles at Dean, flashing the card in front of Dean’s face. He can’t read it, but he recognizes the letters, L-I-B-R-A-R-Y. “If you scan this, you can check out your books. You are only allowed to get one other book besides the Bible, so choose well. You can spend one hour there, and you can talk to no one. When one hour is up, you will cross the street, where I will be waiting to let you in. If I find out you have done one thing, anything, to rouse suspicion, your brother is paying us a nice little visit.” With that, the shining card is placed in Dean’s hands and a new life begins.


	2. The Angel

The day that Dean goes to the library is a sunny one. It is almost identical to the last day, when he was just Dean Winchester, a boy in Kindergarten, and not a captive. The wind whistles its song, and the trees bend in the wind, exactly like the day all was lost. He can barely remember what a cloudy day is like, and he almost wishes it would rain, just so he could feel the tiny droplets hit his face once more. People whizz by in their cars, oblivious to the scars marring Dean’s body and the hurt inside of him. They don’t know, they can’t and they never will.

  
Dean had woken up that morning to a slurred,

  
“Morning, sunshine.” He had jumped away from the body he knew far too well, smacking his head against the wall of his cell.

  
“Such a stupid boy. We are going to fix that today, hmm?” He cooed to Dean, while doing something with his hands Dean didn’t want to think about. He nodded his head, instantly remembering why today was most likely the biggest damn deal in his existence. He was going outside.

  
“Let’s get you all showered and clean, shall we?” Alastair suggested, lifting Dean off the floor. In all his years in the house, he had only been up the stairs once, only because he was bleeding so heavily that Alastair had to sew him up. He remembers hazily lying on a wooden slab and looking up at a moldy ceiling.

  
Alastair hoisted him up and Dean tried to straighten his wobbly legs. Alastair grabbed his key ring from his pocket, the clink of the metal making Dean shudder with excitement. Free. He was going to be free.

  
The door swung open to reveal an old stairway with peeling yellow wallpaper. There was blood on the steps, _his_ , he realized with a shock. Alastair led him up the steps, keeping a firm hold on the back of his neck and roughly shoving him forward when he moved too slowly.

  
The rest of the house was just as ugly and destroyed. Red floral wallpaper decorated the warped halls as Alastair led him to what he assumed was the shower. The windows had the blinds drawn, and a chair had even been pulled up in front of one. A green, disintegrating couch laid in the middle of the living room, with a black box that had colorful pictures glowing on the screen in front of it. It was a TV! In color! Dean had never seen one of those before!

  
Alastair dragged him along to a room with a silver door handle. He pushed open the door to reveal a moth eaten yellow shower cloth that hung over a muddy, rusty bathtub.  
“Strip.” And so shower time began.

  
Once Dean had been scrubbed raw and infused with suspiciously girly scents, Alastair gave him a new set of clothes. He had previously been wearing an oversized brown t-shirt that he had bled, sweat, slept and pissed in. These clothes had no stains or rips, and when he pulled the smooth fabric over his head, it felt soft and comfortable. The shirt clung to him in what Dean thought were the right places, and the blue jeans he had also been given fit his waist almost perfectly. He slipped on some brown hunting boots before he was ushered out of the room.

 

The last thing he was given was a necklace, just before the door to the outside world was opened.

  
It was a gold amulet on a black string. It was some sort of goblin or other, but Dean instantly liked it. It was his.

  
“Just as a reminder not to tell anyone our little secret, Dean,” Alastair said as he fingered the amulet, “I stole this from little Sam’s house when he was sleeping.” And then the door was open, and the card shoved in Dean’s hands. Before he could react to this information, the door was closed and he was in the sun.

  
Now, he stands at the end of the lawn, smiling up at the sun above while adjusting to the supernova of light. He should be thinking about how Alastair knows where Sammy lives and how bad that is, but he hasn’t been outside in eternity, and nothing else seems to matter anymore. He throws out his arms just like he used to do on the summer days when Mom let him play outside. He remembers that he only has an hour, which Alastair had told him meant he has to be back before 5:00. If he isn’t, then Dean would be served Sam’s intestine on a silver platter.

  
Dean sobers up and assesses the situation. He needs to cross the street without getting hit by these fancy, shiny new types of cars. The road is black and freshly paved, the perfect kind of street for learning how to ride a bike, he recalls his mom telling him.

  
A break in the line of cars comes, and he bolts, but really more like stumbles, across the street successfully. He smiles once more.

  
He is standing in front of the library now, his eyes bright with wonder and his hands jittering anxiously by his sides. He opens the door.

  
A cold blast of air hits him like Alastair’s fist, almost knocking him over. The room of books is dimly lit and kind of stuffy. Frigid air rattles out of a vent above his head as he stares in wonder at the library. So many stories, so many words, so many tales that end happier than his ultimately will.

  
So many books he cannot read. This thought makes Dean frown slightly as he slowly walks forward. The first book he sees is black with a golden bird on the cover. He knows the letters, H-U-N-G-E-R G-A-M-E-S. He wonders what that means. The book is big and seems too difficult, so he delves deeper into the cavern of paper and ink.

  
Dean spots a section with pictures and slowly moves over to the area. There are words he can read, like dog, and jump. He doesn’t see any people his size here, and he flushes with embarrassment. His mom never read picture books. He must look silly. He backs away and moves to the taller cases of books in the back. His eyes rove over the spines.  
He runs his soft fingers over the backs of the books, treasuring each one like it is holy.

  
He pulls one of the shelf. It is has a picture of a man with a gun on the front, and he recognizes the word bird on the cover. The man reminds Dean of his father. He clutches the book tightly to him. He has to find the Bible now.

  
He looks up and down every shelf, not knowing what he is looking for, before a happy brown haired girl comes up to him.

  
Dean jumps in terror as she says brightly,

  
“Do you need any help finding anything?” He settles down once he eliminates her as a threat. He remembers that he must look like a normal kid; Sammy’s life depends on him.  
“Yes,” he clears his throat, “The Bible, please.” She doesn’t question his needs at all, and the next thing Dean knows, he’s being led to a department in the way back that he had already scoured and being handed a Bible. His mission is successful.

  
“Uh, what time is it?” He asks, trying desperately to sound normal. The friendly girl that reminds him of his Mom goes,

  
“Oh, it’s…” she checks her wristwatch, “4:25. The library closes in 35 minutes, by the way. Anything else I can help you with?”

  
“No, thank you.” He weakly smiles at her and she nods and skips away. Dean likes her very much.

  
There are not many people in the library right now. There are a couple of younger kids playing with the TV’s, and a bigger older woman perusing a shelf to his right. He scans the room for a place to sit down; he only has 35 minutes left, and he has to be fast.

  
He sits down at a wooden table in the back of the room, right next to where the girl found the Bible for him. He pulls out his two conquests and stares at them in wonder.

  
“May I sit with you?” A rough voice from behind him whispers softly. Dean thinks his voice sounds like fresh air and rocks falling down a mountain. His voice is so beautiful, it unleashes the parts of him he tries most to hide, the feelings of all-consuming fear, the thirst for another human being, the hunger to touch anyone besides Alastair. He wants to speak to this man so badly; Dean wants to turn around and hug him and to breathe in his face, but he cannot. He shakes his head miserably, sticking his head deeper into his book and trying to prevent tears from dripping down onto the perfect white pages.

Dean feels the table shift and he looks up in alarm.

  
His heart pangs at the beauty he sees. Blue, blue eyes. Blue like the sky on the last day. Hair, black like his room in the cellar, messy and sticking up in strange places. The man is wearing a tan coat with a white fancy shirt beneath it. His tie is backwards, Dean realizes with wonder. This man is a work of art.

  
“The Bible is so enlightening, is it not?” The gruff voice intones, while Dean attempts to tear his eyes away from the other man, so close he could bunch the man’s perfect white shirt in his newly clean hands and scream,

  
“Can’t you see the bruises? The cuts? The fear? Can’t you see I can’t do this anymore?”

  
But he doesn’t. He sits, slouched up against a chair, his back sore and his face pinched in pain. Instead, he whispers,

  
“Yes.” This is said so very cautiously, Alastair’s warning to “talk to no one” ringing in his ears. Surely talking about the Bible isn’t suspicious; Alastair would probably encourage it, in fact.

  
Minutes pass in silence, Dean fiddling with the pages of the Bible while the stranger watches him intently. Dean wants to cower and hide from the powerful stare, but something in it registers as good in his brain. So he tenses his body and burns a hole in the side of the book.

  
“My father named me after one of the Lord’s angels. Castiel. All my siblings are named after angels, actually. My parents are very devout, and my brother, Lucifer, is an Atheist. Very interesting dynamics in the Novak house.”

  
Why is Castiel telling him this? What’s an Atheist? Why is he even talking to him? This is too much, too much, too much,

  
“I’m studying Theology at the University right now. I’d much rather be in Anthropology. I just love the human race, don’t you? We are so flawed and yet so beautiful.” Castiel continues to quietly narrate his thoughts to Dean, and he listens to every detail. The simple, soft words pouring from Castiel’s mouth are as soothing as his mother’s lullabies from before. Dean hangs on to every word as Castiel goes on about his brother Michael, and his trickster brother Gabriel, and his lovely little sister Anna.

  
“Gabriel left our family when I was just a child. I haven’t seen him since then, and no one knows where he went. I miss him a lot.” Dean wants to say,

  
“Just like how I miss Sammy!” But once again, his mouth is immobile, glued shut with the threat of Sam’s life being taken. Then from the ceiling, a voice suddenly booms,

  
“The library is closing in ten minutes. Please check out your books now. Thank you!” Dean stands up, almost knocking his chair over. He has to go. He looks back at Castiel and asks him,

  
“Why did you tell me all of that?” He really can’t help it. He really should be going. He really should shut his mouth before he gets Sammy killed. They stare at each other for what feels like hours, neither saying a word. Dean picks up his books and turns to leave when he hears,

  
“I can read people very well. You needed company.” Before Dean can respond, Castiel has already stood up and turned around, his coat billowing out behind him and his feet taking confident strides till he’s gone. Dean realizes that he didn't even have a book.

  
Dean quickly scurries to the front counter and watches the person next to him slide their card and then their books under the red light. He mimics the action and rips the receipt out of the machine that dispensed it. He walks out the door, staring back at the Bible corner. He has just met an angel in the library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my Cas! You guys are amazing! I cannot believe the positive response this is getting! I hope I portrayed Castiel alright; I didn't want to rush his character development. Keep commenting and reading, please! :)
> 
> Love you all! xx
> 
> -SJ


	3. The Blood

He makes it home one minute past five.

  
The beating is worse than ever before.

  
After Alastair has colored his body with crimson and purple, Dean is left alone to reflect on the day.

  
He has two books now. Two actual books that he will teach himself to read somehow with a Kindergarten education. He has talked to two other people, and both were kind to him and suspected nothing. He knows the name of another human being. Castiel, the man named after an angel.

  
Dean thinks about this angel, how quietly he spoke to Dean and calmed him with interesting, yet private details of his life. This stranger knew Dean needed to listen, so he talked. It was eerie how well Castiel could read him.

  
He will never see him again. Dean will rot in this basement with his two books and that one goddamn flickering light bulb. He will bleed to death on the moldy floor, his blood seeping into the ground and staining it forever with Alastair’s sins. His body will disintegrate into the ground; leaving his broken skeleton for Alastair to somehow dispose of.

  
Dean often wonders why Alastair didn't just kill him the first night when Dean bit his shoulder and screamed so loud he thought surely someone could hear him. He questions why Alastair didn't just shoot him after he had been used for the first time. How many years has it been? How many times has he been hurt? How many times have his parents sobbed themselves to sleep over him? How many times has Sammy asked what happened to his big brother?

  
Why is he still here? If Castiel’s God is really alive, then why is Dean still here? Why did he create Alastair?

  
Dean picks up the Bible and throws it at the wall. Poor Castiel, believing in a God who isn't real.

  
He shakily picks up his other book and tries to read the title. T-O K-I-L-L A M-O-C-K-I-N-G B-I-R-D.

  
He opens up to the first couple of pages, searching for words that he recognizes. Back when he realized he would never be released, Dean used to silently sing the alphabet to himself. The letters have been scratched into the flesh of his brain, and he knows he will never forget.

  
After a few minutes of frustrating failures, Dean shuts the book and lies down to sleep.

  
He dreams of angels in tan coats, and eyes as blue as the ocean.

  
Days pass and Dean slowly figures out that the title of his book is To Kill a Mockingbird, and he knows his old teacher would have been proud of him for figuring that out.  
Alastair comes home in the evenings to “relieve himself” with Dean every night. The bruises turn green. Dean’s shirt gets a new blood stain. His amulet hides under his shirt, and he thinks of what it means every night.

  
Dean knows that Alastair knows who Sam is. He knows because as a young child, Dean used to scream for Sam till his throat was raw and his lungs were burning. One time, as Alastair was cramming himself inside Dean, he whispered in his ear,

  
“I know where your family lives, Dean Winchester. Stay with me and I won’t hurt them.” This had terrified Dean, for Alastair had never called him by his full name before, and he certainly hadn’t threatened his family before either.

  
Dean remembers the time he got so close to leaving. Alastair had left the door unlocked. He waited till there was silence above him and silently opened it. He had crept up the steps with his light, agile feet and gotten to the door. He had pushed it open with shaking fingers, breathing heavily with disbelief. He had done it! He was escaping!

  
Alastair was waiting for him outside.

  
“Don’t be a bad boy, Dean.” And then he was falling, falling down all those steps until he landed in his cell with a thump.

  
Dean had cried for days over his aching body and crushed dreams. The day after his botched escape attempt, Alastair let himself into Dean’s cage, his shirt smattered with blood. It wasn’t Dean’s.

  
“Don’t make me do that again.” He had cooed while smiling at him. Dean still does not know whose blood it was.

  
There is no use in wondering.

  
Four days after Dean’s visit to the library, Alastair returns with a new set of clothes.

  
“You’ve been such a good boy, Dean. I’m letting you go back to the library, because you’ve pleased me so very much. You would like that, wouldn’t you?” He asks Dean, in between moans.

  
“Yes, sir.” Dean responds, always the good little soldier.

  
“Good boy.” Alastair growls with a thrust.

  
Soon, Dean is dressed in fresh, clean clothes and walking across the street again.

  
He is more confident now, his footsteps more certain and his eyes burning brighter. He pulls open the door with excitement, his face stoic but his insides tingling with glee. His chest muscles loosen and his clenched fists relax. Alastair cannot monitor him here. He is free once more.

  
He walks across the library quietly, his virgin feet unaccustomed to walking. When Dean reaches the Bible section, he exhales softly with awe. Castiel sits, his tan coat rumbled beneath him and his hair tousled messily. His eyes glow like sapphires and his strong jaw is drawn tight like a bow string.

  
“Hello.” Dean wheezes out uncertainly, immediately regretting it. There should be no talking, no whispering, no notes, and no clues, nothing that would cause suspicion. 

Castiel turns his raven haired head to gaze at Dean.

“Hello.” Dean sits down shakily across from him, his body tense and his hands trembling.

  
“I never quite caught your name last time.” Shit. Shit, shit, shit. This is what Dean was most afraid of.

  
“Dean. My name is Dean.” His mouth is already forming the words and then they're out, hanging in the space between them, the first time he’s said his own name in years.

“Nice to meet you again, Dean.” Castiel’s lips turn up in what Dean thinks is supposed to be a smile, but really just looks like a pained grimace.

  
“Are you okay?” Dean asks, tugging at his sleeve and tapping his foot anxiously.

  
“Yes, I suppose I am okay.” Castiel responds, his head turned to look out the window. Dean follows his stare and admires the springtime colors.

  
“You came back.” Dean deadpans, even though he knows this is a rhetorical statement and that he shouldn’t be talking at all. Dean always knows what he’s doing his wrong, he does, deep down inside, but he never listens. Alastair always knew he was a rebel. That was what he liked the most about Dean, just when he looks like he is going to give in to the reaper, he fights like a warrior to maintain his pathetic existence.

  
“Yes, I always come to the library after school lets out. It helps me to unwind, watching the people. Same time every day, 3:30 to 5. I’ve never had a companion before, though. I find it…quite preferable.” For some unknown reason, Dean’s face flushes scarlet so violently he feels like his face is on fire. Castiel enjoys his company?

  
“Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird. A fan of the classics, I see? Personally, I favor Dickens and Twain, but I won’t turn down a good old fashioned story like that one.” Dean stares at Castiel, his ears drinking in the comments so he can live off them until he can come back and hear more. If Dean is good, he can come back. He can see his angel again. The thought makes Dean smile.

  
“It’s…hard to read. I’ve never been,” Dean blushes yet again, “uh, good at reading.”

  
“Oh? Challenging yourself is always good. It stimulates the brain and enriches your character.”

  
Suddenly, all Dean wants is to shift the attention away from himself, to hear Castiel’s stories and to learn more about his family. Castiel can never ask about his family, because Dean thinks something inside him would snap and he would grab him and force them to run, run to the police or to Mom or anyone, anyone besides Alastair.  _Save me, please._

  
“How is your sister, Anna?” Dean asks, trying so hard to inject normality into his tone. Castiel visibly winces.

  
“Father does not approve of her choices. She has been…questioning his authority and skipping church. I don’t know if she’s going to stay with us much longer. Anna never stays for long. I'll miss her dearly.”

 

“I’m sorry.” Dean whispers. Castiel nods and looks outside as the sun shines down upon humanity.

  
“I’m sorry too, Dean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love you guys so much! xx
> 
> Question: Do you guys like Cas yet? It's very hard to write him right now and I feel like I'm doing a sucky job. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! :)
> 
> -SJ


	4. The Bench

Dean thinks he could drown in those eyes. They are crystalline pools of intelligence and innocence, everything Dean doesn’t have. They help him live. 

Life is promised to no one. You must cling to the shreds of goodness in the world while you still can, Dean thinks. Castiel is the good in a whole sea of bad. He is Dean’s only link to salvation. 

After the second visit, Dean walks home with a renewed will to live and Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. He is five minutes early. Alastair ushers him inside with a gusto and smiles at him crudely. 

“Have your little trips taught you anything, Dean?” His voice disfigures Dean’s name into something hideous. When Castiel says his name, it sounds like his tongue is gently caressing the words out of his mouth. Castiel protects his name like it means something. It does. Dean Winchester’s name means everything. 

Dean returns to the library two days later, with the first page of Great Expectations mostly deciphered and a smile to light up the Earth.

Castiel is waiting for him, staring out the window at the gloomy sky. 

“Hey, Castiel.” Dean greets him shyly, his lips forming the words naturally. He wants to ask him something, something he has been thinking about for days since they last met.

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel responds, giving Dean a poignant stare and then averting his eyes. 

“I was wondering…” he trails off nervously, plopping down across from Castiel and placing his books on the table carefully. 

“Can I call you Cas? Castiel is just so hard to say, ya know?” He stutters over the words, his cheeks aflame and his palms sweaty.

Castiel removes his gaze from the window and refocuses on Dean. 

“No one has ever given me a nickname before.” He looks so fucking serious, like a confused animal examining something, with his head tilted and his brows furrowed. It makes Dean want to throw back his head and laugh; he wants to crack up for the first time in years over the expression on his face. 

His laughter causes Cas to tilt his head at a harsher angle, which makes Dean laugh harder. The laughter warms his belly; it heals his wounds and tickles his insides.

Then Cas smiles, and the happiness consumes him. 

“Alright, Cas it is, then.” The newly nicknamed man says with a grin. 

After they finish a character analysis of Pip and Cas gives Dean an update on his family, the speaker system announces the impending close of the library. Dean can’t help but to look crushed. Cas looks stoic as always, ready to stand up and walk out of the library with confident steps. Then, Dean does something dangerous. 

“Wait.”

Castiel turns to Dean, surprised by his impulsive request. 

“Can we just…” he inhales shakily, “talk for a little longer? I don’t think I’ll be coming back for a while…” He shuffles his feet nervously, staring at the ground.

“Okay. Come outside with me.” Rebellion ignites within Dean, and he bounds after the man in the coat excitedly. He takes the moment to realize that Cas would fit perfectly in his arms. 

Cas leads him outside to a bench on the side of the library facing away from his prison cell. They sit down and watch the people get into their cars and zoom off. 

“Are we friends, Dean?” Castiel’s voice breaks the companionable silence randomly. Dean is startled by this question; Cas is his friend. Was he wrong to assume this?

“I…I think so?” He stumbles over the words, feeling his stomach twist and his cheeks freeze. 

“My brother Raphael told me I needed more friends. I told him I had you, and he laughed. Maybe sometime I can prove him wrong by introducing you two. Then he’d believe me.” Dean wants to. He wants to get invited to Cas’s house to meet his family. He wants to tell his parents about Castiel, his angel. He wants to with a desperation so raw that it feels like he’s being ripped apart. He wants to tell Cas how much he wants to and how much he can’t. 

“That would be nice.” He shoves out instead. 

“I have Finals tomorrow. I am not looking forward to them.” Castiel grimaces. Dean wonders what Finals are, and why they are bad. He almost asks, but once again, he doesn’t. 

They sit for a few more minutes on that bench, making idle conversation and unknowingly forging a bond which can only be forged by two people who suffer. 

That night, when Dean makes it home ten minutes past 5:00 and receives what is possibly the worst beating of his life, he thinks about Cas. When he bleeds from everywhere, when his lungs burn and shake to pull in breaths, when his fingers bleed from scraping and scratching at everything, when his back hurts from being slammed into a wall ruthlessly, when he makes himself stay awake to make sure he survives the night, he knows it’s worth it. Those precious ten minutes on the park bench outside the library, they are worth the pain. Dean knows if he were to die tonight, his last memory would be of Cas, and his laugh and his smile, of his whispered farewell, 

“Good night, Dean.” 

As he finally closes his eyes, he mouths into the darkness, 

“Good night, Cas."

“Rise and shine, Dean-y.” 

The disgusting drawl wakes Dean from his comatose sleep. He rolls over too quickly and groans as his entire body seizes in pain. This is the ultimate agony. He’ll never be able to return to the library, he’ll never see Cas again, and he’ll be sore for weeks. He wants to curl into himself, to let himself get kicked until his ribs are broken and his lungs are punctured. He doesn’t. 

“Time for round two, pretty boy.” Alastair growls, picking Dean up by his throat. He hasn’t done this before. This is bad, this really going to be bad this time, Dean thinks, trying desperately to weasel out of the tight grasp. His throat is constricting, his eye sight is getting fuzzy, and his oxygen is running low, and yet he still fights, flailing like a fish out of water. 

“Do you think,” Alastair’s voice seethes in his ear, “you can just ignore my orders? That you can just follow your own schedule and come back when you feel like it? Do you think I can’t kill your brother just as easily as I killed your pathetic mother? Well I have news for you, Dean. I killed your mother. I can kill your brother. I can kill your father. I can kill your little friend that you moan for in your sleep. I can kill you. Don’t forget it, Dean Winchester.” And then he is being dropped back onto the ground and he can breathe again. 

Alastair grabs his precious books off the floor, leaving the Bible of course, and walks over to the wood burning stove in the corner of the cellar and throws the books in. He takes something out of his pocket, and sets the contents aflame. Dean screams. His whole world is crashing around him. 

“Kill me, then! Just kill me, please!” His voice breaks as he pleads. His mother is dead. His mother is dead. His mother is dead. Alastair laughs at him. He holds his gut and laughs at Dean’s suicidal plea.

“Oh, but Dean, that would be too easy. I like watching you suffer. I liked watching your mother suffer too.” More laughing. 

“Go to hell, you bastard! Go to hell!” He yells at his torturer. His mother is dead. 

“Not yet, sunny. Not yet. I still have work to do.” Alastair gives one last hoot of laughter before he slams the door shut. 

Dean crumbles. He absolutely fucking implodes. All these years, all this time thinking of his mother’s smiling face waiting for him at home. She was murdered. His mother has been murdered in his place. 

Dean deserves to die. Screw all the “saving other people from his fate” shit he’d always told himself. He couldn’t even keep his own mother safe. 

He is worthless. There is nothing left for him. Sammy and Dad don’t need him. Castiel will find another friend. Dean is always replaceable. 

He lies down on the cold, biting cement. 

His mother is dead and it is all his fault. He is numb with anguish. Dreams of suicide replace dreams of angels. Dean never believed in them anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot even express the utter joy I feel when I see a new comment or new kudos on this story. Seriously, you guys are amazing. I don't know why any of are reading this, it's making me depressed and I'm the one who thought of it! I promise it'll get better! Just stick with me, please :)
> 
> Love you guys! xx
> 
> -SJ


	5. The Dreamer

            The funny thing about being trapped inside of a basement for most of your life is that you start to appreciate the things that used to annoy you. Say, chores, for example. Dean hated chores as a child; he never wanted to clean his room or put away his toys. But his mom told him to, so he did. He hated having a bedtime, but he didn’t complain. His mom told him to go to bed, so he did. He used to hate going shopping for new clothes with Sammy and Mom. He can’t remember the stores he used to dread going to. He would give so much just to remember. He would take another punch to the stomach just to do the dishes one more time. He would give up everything to go to bed in his old home.

            The sad thing about being trapped inside of a basement for most of your life thinking your mother is alive, is that when your kidnapper tells you he killed her, your whole life feels like a lie. All this time, Dean had been fueled by his all-consuming need to be reunited with his family. His fuel had just run out. He was running on empty. When a car runs out of gas, what does it do? It stops. Dean stops too.

            The worst thing about being trapped inside of a basement for most of your life is that you start to forget things. Dean can’t remember what Sammy’s room looked like, or what color his house was, or what his teacher’s name was. He can’t remember his favorite food and he can’t recall what sugar tastes like. He can’t remember what he used to do when he couldn’t get to sleep at night. He can’t remember his mother’s voice.

            Dean wonders if his mom thought of him, her precious baby, in her last moments. Did she wonder about him, the child she lost, as the light drifted out of her beautiful eyes? Was Sammy there? Who found her? Did she scream? Did she try to run? Did she know that her murderer was the one who stole her child and ruined his innocence? Did she feel any pain? As she took her last breath, did she still believe that angels were watching over her first born?

            Dean stares at the yellow haired stick figure mocking him from the stone walls. Tears drip down his broken face. His family is no more.

            He loses track of the days. He can’t count the hours he mourns and the whimpers he makes. His grief mixes in with physical pain, and to top it off, his stomach growls with the need for food and his bladder feels close to combustion. He begins to think maybe Alastair had heeded his request. Maybe he was going to die. Although, he’d prefer a clean shot through the head rather than starvation.

            Just when Dean’s eyes become red from sobbing and his mouth feels like sandpaper, the door is opened. Alastair towers above Dean, a devious smile painting his awful lips.

            “Well, that little experiment seemed to have its desired effect. Still feeling suicidal there, drama queen? I killed your mother years ago. That’s old news!” Alastair sneers at him, bending down and clutching Dean’s chin in his fingers.

            “I’m going to kill you.” Dean growls, his voice as deadly as he can make it. Alastair downright cackles at the suggestion.

            “I’d love to see you try.” Alastair stands up and strides away from Dean, looking towards the fireplace. Dean is red. His body is tense with rage and all he can think about his putting a bullet through his chest. Dean had managed when it was only him being hurt. This man had killed his mother. It was time for him to die.

            Dean is consumed with fury, his body trembles with it and his eyes blur with the need for revenge. Alastair is mumbling something about his books, and then Dean is up on his feet, his world swaying but his anger keeping him steady. He bounds over to Alastair and jumps on his back, tackling him to the ground. He is biting and smacking and kicking, trying to inflict harm anyway he can. He is screaming threats as his sickly body attacks the man who has ruined his life. Alastair won’t stop laughing. His vile laugh echoes off the walls, closing in on Dean and making his insanity crisper. Dean wants to punch his teeth out so he doesn’t have to hear that goddamn cackle anymore.

            “Shut the hell up.” He snarls at Alastair, pounding his skull into the pavement.

            Alastair roars harder. The evil laughter is penetrating Dean’s brain, it’s making him even more deranged.

            “This is for my mom, you evil son of a bitch.” He growls as grabs the man’s throat in his hands.

            Dean awakens with a jolt, his whole body numb and his brain foggy with delirious rage.

            He stares at the picture on the wall some more. A small infinity passes before the door rattle again, for real this time.

            Alastair stands in the doorway, smiling like he’s looking at a pet. Dean supposes that’s what he is, a domesticated animal.

            “Oh Dean. Such a poor, pathetic little creature. You used to be such a pretty little boy.” Alastair coos at him, beckoning him forward for another session.

            Dean makes sure he performs well.

            Later, he is fed and given new clothes. He relieves himself and gets his bruises covered with some sort of nude colored liquid. He almost looks good as new. The haunted look in his eyes sort of ruins the illusion.

            The next thing Dean knows, he’s standing at the door with the library card placed in his hands.

            “This is a test. Don’t misbehave, Dean-y. Sammy might be next.”

            Then, he is outside the house and into the sun.

            He trudges his way across the street, his body moaning in agony and his brain numb with dehydration and pain. He opens the door to the library hopefully, subconsciously wishing for his friend.

            Cas isn’t there.

            “Yes, I always come to the library after school lets out. It helps me to unwind, watching the people. Same time every day, 3:30 to 5.” He is always here.

            Where is he?

            Dean panics. He has a full-blown anxiety attack in the middle of the religious section.

            “Dean?” A voice from behind him asks. He whirls around so fast he knocks into the shelf next to him.

            “Cas?” He breathes, relieved to a degree he can’t explain. Dean Winchester is lonely. Dean Winchester’s mother is dead. Dean Winchester has only known the touch of one man all his life. Dean Winchester needs a hug. He rushes into Castiel’s arms, too starved for affection that he doesn’t even flush. At first, Cas is as stiff as a board. Then, he softens into the hug. For a second, Dean almost feels wanted.

            “I missed you, Cas.” He sniffles after a while. A pause.

            “I missed you too.”

Suddenly, Dean decides he doesn’t want to die anymore after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is another shorter chapter for you faithful readers! I hope this is less angst-y then the previous. Read, comment, and (what's the verb form for kudos? kudo?) away, lovelies! Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> -SJ 
> 
> P.S. It's my birthday today and it would be lovely to get some feedback as a gift ;) 
> 
> Love you guys! xx


	6. The Question

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter we get to see into Castiel's brain.

Castiel had known a girl in high school named Darcy. She had flaming red hair and a smile to light up a room. She laughed with a vibrancy that warmed the soul and her eyes were the color of emeralds. She had conversed with Castiel over the years several times, commenting on topics in class and the like. One day, Cas noticed a bruise peeping out from under her shirt.

            Now, Castiel had no prior experience with abuse. His father never laid a finger on him in a harmful way, and neither did any of his lovers (which made up a shocking total of zero). Castiel had been naive then; a product of sheltered parenting and neglect. He was so stupidly ignorant.

            A week later, Darcy came to school with a black eye and a split lip.

            Castiel began to question if she had really fallen down the stairs. So he asked her, when they were sitting next to each other during a lab,

            “Are you okay, Darcy?” And she had bitten her lip so hard it bled and shook her head.

            “Do you need help?” He remembers asking her. She shook her head again. He should’ve helped. He should’ve told someone.

            Two days later, Darcy’s body was found stabbed to death in a river.

Her killer was her boyfriend. She was an abuse victim.

            Castiel cannot let Dean end up mutilated and floating down a river. He thinks about the possibility every time he sees the poorly concealed scars hiding underneath Dean’s clothes. He suspects something every time he moves his hands and watches Dean flinch. The last time they met, he watched Dean on the park bench, the weary set of his shoulders and the pained way he held himself up, like he couldn’t do it anymore. Dean looked like a frightened child, and Castiel was worried sick about it.

            Then came the week where Dean was absent, and Castiel began to fear the worst. He knew he should have said something as soon as he realized how truly broken Dean was. He thought he was doing the right thing, keeping his distance and respecting Dean’s boundaries. He had forgotten about Darcy.

            He finally breaches the subject when they reunite for the first time in a week. Dean looks so absolutely terrified when he can’t find him, and it breaks Castiel’s heart. He needs to ask.

When they are sitting down in their usual spot in the back of the room, Castiel folds his hands and looks at Dean. He really, truly looks at this man he’s come to know.

            He notices things he hasn’t looked close enough to see before.

            Dean’s eyes are sunk into his skull, his eyes red and wrought with fear. His shoulders are shivering in his too big shirt, and his arms are covered in faded bruises that one could so easily ignore if they weren’t looking for them. Up and down his throat, there are faint purple imprints, and Castiel thinks they might be hands. He wants to vomit. Dean holds himself like a little boy trying to be brave, but Cas can see that Dean is afraid. That’s all Dean really is, under all the awkward shyness and laughter. He is a scared little boy.

            Dean needs his help. Castiel has been ignorant again. His friends keep getting hurt.

            “Dean.” He whispers softly, trying to create a calm environment that Dean won’t run from. His friend looks up from his hands, looking at Castiel with a terrified glint in his eyes. Castiel had been so stupid not to see this before. Maybe some part of him had tried to ignore it so it wouldn’t be real. Castiel couldn’t let Dean be the next Darcy.

            “Dean, are you alright?” He starts out slowly, gently taking Dean’s hand in his. Dean looks so frightened, it makes something in Castiel’s stomach turn. Who had turned this vivacious man into the scared little boy he was now? What had been done to him? Dean looks up at him sharply, biting his lip just like Darcy did all those years ago. That’s when Cas knows for sure. People like Darcy and Dean bite their lips to hold in the secrets, the pain, and the cries for help. Their mouths have been sealed shut by their own fear.

            Dean shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

            “Yeah, I’m,” he stutters, “I’m fine.”

            “No, Dean, you’re not. What is going on?” He demands softly but earnestly, trying to purvey that he is deadly serious but does not mean any harm. Dean rips his hand out of his grasp and turns his head.

            “You can tell me, Dean. Please, let me help you. Who has done this to you? Are you safe?” He questions, his eyes pleading desperately for an answer. He watches his mouth move in what he deciphers as,

            “I can’t. I can’t.”

            “I can’t tell you, Cas. I just,” he darts his eyes around, and Castiel catches them pinned out the window at the house across the street for just a beat too long.

            “I can’t.” Dean breathes shakily, his whole body as tense as a bow string.

            “Why?” Castiel asks. Why can’t Dean let him help?

            “Because I promised not to.” Dean gives him a desperate ‘let it go’ look and Castiel decides to drop it. For now.

            “So. Where’s Great Expectations?” Dean goes as white as a sheet.

            “Uh…I, uh, I forgot it. At home.” Castiel knows this is a lie. He wishes that Dean wouldn’t lie to him.

            “Okay. Let me help you pick out another book then, hmm?” He suggests, trying so hard to put a smile on Dean’s face. His lips twitch upwards, and Castiel praises this small victory.

            Cas knew from the minute he first met Dean that he didn’t have much education. He had assumed he dropped out of high school or had some sort of learning disorder. Cas thinks Dean might even be illiterate.

            After Castiel has picked out two simpler books for Dean to start reading, and they have talked some more, the library announces that it is closing. Cas accompanies Dean to the checkout station and watches as he carefully scans his books, placing them each under the scanner as if to rough handle them would be sacrilegious. Castiel is in awe of this man. He is the most precious human being Castiel he has ever had the pleasure of meeting. He is everything Cas loves about humanity.

            It is his job to make sure this human is saved. This must be God’s plan for him.

            When both books are checked out, Dean looks out the window at the house across the street once more. He looks devastated to be leaving.

            “Good bye, Cas. Thank you.” He whispers, giving Cas one last desperate look.

            “Good bye, Dean. Be careful.” He says back, begging with his eyes for Dean to keep himself alive. Dean nods, softly grins, and walks out the door. Castiel realizes this is the first time Dean has left him and not the other way around. He is dangerously close to this man, and it scares him.

            When Dean makes it across the street and Alastair ushers him back inside a minute before five, he breathes a sigh of relief. No torture, no beating, no bleeding. Alastair drags him back downstairs for what he calls, “fun”, which is somehow more bearable than getting the shit beat out of him.

            Alastair leaves Dean alone with a,

            “Night, night, Dean. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.” That haunts Dean and chills him to the very bone. He grabs his two books when Alastair has left, and something falls out of one. It’s a note. Miraculously, Dean can read it.

            _ **Stay safe for me.**_

_**-Cas** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response I received on the last chapter was overwhelming! Best birthday presents ever! I hope this chapter helped clear things up for some of you. I tried very hard to answer most of your questions. Thank you all for reading! Read, kudo (still don't know the verb form, so I'm sticking with that) and comment! 
> 
> Love you all! xx
> 
> -SJ


	7. The House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! :)

            Castiel is an anxious person.

            He worries about his exam scores. He worries about his sister, Anna, and her tendency to rebel. He worries about Gabriel, the brother he lost to the sins of the Earth. He worries about how he feels nothing when he looks at women, but he feels everything when he looks at Dean. He worries about how his friend is being hurt and how he doesn’t know how to stop it. He worries about the scared man who can laugh like a child on a summer’s day one minute, and frown like someone who carries the weight of the world on their shoulders the next. He worries about how to save him.

            Cas notices that Dean likes to look worriedly across the street at a brick house crawling with vines and surrounded by fence on three sides. Perhaps Dean thinks the house is pretty. Maybe he thinks the rusty station wagon in the driveway is a piece of art. Maybe he has a thing for creepy old men in overalls who live by themselves.

            Maybe Darcy had fallen down the stairs, too.

            He knows suddenly what he has to do.

            He sits in his car in the parking lot of the library, watching Dean cross the street, cautious and full of dread. The town’s shut in, Alastair Grey, greets Dean with a leering smile as he ushers him in doors. Dean looks back outside one last time, his eyes full of fear but resignation.

            It is in that moment that Castiel realizes something is horribly, horribly wrong.

            He didn’t know Alastair Grey had a son. There certainly had never been a Dean Grey that had gone to his school at any point. He is certain he would have remembered him.

            Castiel starts his ludicrous, extravagant Mercedes that his father bought him and pulls out of the library parking lot. His father thought that if Castiel had a pretty car, fancy clothes and a rightful education in both the ways of the Lord and the World, he would marry a nice woman and have grandchildren he could spoil. The entire Novak family tried to ignore the fact that Castiel showed signs of homosexuality, hoping that he would just, “grow out of it”. Cas didn’t think he ever would. Every time he looked at Dean he was reminded of just how badly he lusted for a man’s touch. It made his stomach roil and his heart warm, two very conflicting feelings.

            His car pulls up next to the house Dean had gone inside of earlier, right at five o’clock. He idles on the curb, watching the house for any signs of Dean. He waits for five minutes and when he sees nothing, he returns home.

            _Dean Grey, Lawrence, Kansas_ he types into the search bar on his laptop when he gets to his house.

            _Zero Results_.

            _Dean, Lawrence, Kansas_

            There are over one thousand results.

            He spends a few minutes combing through census records and comes up with nothing. He slams his laptop shut and holds his head in his hands. Maybe he was fretting over nothing. Maybe Dean just has a sickly nature, or has cancer, (he shudders at the thought) and his Alastair is just very protective of him and Dean doesn’t like that.

            He decided to let it go until they meet again. He begins studying for his Theology 101 class reluctantly.

            Two knocks and Anna is bursting into his room a half an hour later, her eyes bloodshot and puffy, and he knows she has been crying. He stands up from his desk, alarmed and strides over to her.

            “Anna, what has happened?” He demands of her, his defensive brotherly instincts taking over.

             She sobs into his shoulder and clutches at him blindly.

            “It’s Gabriel, he’s dead.”

* * *

 

            It had always been the same for Dean. Every time he felt like succumbing to the blackness that he knew was Death itself, he fought it. He fought if for Mom, for Dad, and for Sammy. Never for himself. He was just a variable. He was the string keeping the guillotine raised above all of his family’s heads. It was his sole purpose to bear the blade’s weight in order to save his family. It was his only reason for living.

            It was the only thing that kept him from giving in, until he met a man in a tan coat who spoke of angels and atheist brothers; a man who dreamt of being an Anthropologist and had a soft spot for Charles Dickens. A man who listened to him when no one else could. Castiel.

            Now, as Dean lies in the cell he knows awfully too well, he thinks about why this man talks to him, the dumb lost boy who doesn’t know how to read or write, and hasn’t been to school past Kindergarten. He knows Cas knows something is wrong. He knows deep down in the pit of his stomach that Cas suspects something, and the spark of this knowledge ignites something bigger.

            Fear.

            Alastair tore him away from his family at the age of five, and kept him secret for years. He killed his mother because Dean couldn’t keep his mouth shut when Alastair was violating him. His captor had immense power and could evade the police and take Dean with him. Sammy wouldn’t escape, because Alastair would always find out Dean’s plans before he carried them out. He knows about Cas. He knows how much Dean loves Sam. He knows how to break Dean completely. He knows everything.

            Maybe he would get lucky and manage to hold off Alastair long enough for Cas to call the police and for them to arrive. Maybe just isn’t good enough.

            His life is full of maybes.

            Maybe Alastair won’t rape him. Maybe he’ll get something to eat that night. Maybe his mother is dead. Maybe his family has moved. Maybe Alastair is lying about everything. Maybe Castiel doesn’t care about him. Maybe everyone has forgotten about him.

            Maybe he’s insane.

            He never can tell.

            Dean bangs his head into the hard wall of his cell, cursing out the impossible circumstances he is in. He is so close to escape, he can taste it. So close that it makes it even harder for him to keep quiet. He is going to break someday, and the whole world as he knows it is going to break with it.

            Back when captivity was new and the feeling of broken bones was foreign, he used to get so incredibly bored. He used to count the stains on the ceiling, or tell stories to himself in his head. Now, boredom is an alien concept. Boredom is now sacred; it is those rainy days in which his mom used to make him stay inside by himself. Boredom is a privilege for the healthy and the happy. Dean doesn’t get to be bored. He wishes he could be.

            His legs are curled up to his chest and he hugs them with his sore arms, rocking back and forth and dreaming of boredom. He was such a sheltered child. Nothing his parents did could have prepared him for hell on Earth.

            On the days when Alastair inflicts the cruelest punishment of all, loneliness, Dean thinks about how his life could have been. He would have been best friends with Benny through elementary school, and then he would go to middle school and meet pretty girls and kiss them. Then, he would go through high school, maybe lose his virginity (a term he picked up from Alastair’s disgusting mouth) to a girl he loved. Then he would work on cars with Uncle Bobby while he watched Sammy grow up. Next, he would get married to a wonderful woman and she would give him some boys to teach how to play football and how to fix a car. They would raise their children together in Lawrence, and they would die peacefully together.

            Dean can’t imagine what his wife would have looked like. He can’t even think about the fact that he will probably never marry.

            Alastair stole his life from him. The path his life could’ve taken robbed from him at the tender age of five.

            He realizes he’ll never have children.

            A tear drips down onto the ground.

             

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank you for reading this boring filler chapter. I had tons of projects due that I had to work on, so that's the reason for the delay and overall suckiness of this chapter. I'm just really burnt out right now. I hope I still have readers out there somewhere! Read, comment and kudo! :)
> 
> Love you guys! xx


	8. The Funeral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of feels in this chapter. Oof.

            Castiel knew this would happen. He knew as soon as Gabriel left the Novak house that they would always end up here.

            His big brother is lying dead in a black box and Castiel never got to say goodbye.

            His trickster of a brother is all out of tricks.

            In some ways, it hurts. It hurts because this was his brother, the one who taught him how to talk to girls (a skill he didn’t utilize often) and how to hide things from their Dad. This was Gabriel, the brother that held a tiny Cas close to him at night when the whole house seemed to shake with the force of Michael and Lucifer’s rage. In other ways, it angered Cas. It infuriated him because Gabriel had been irresponsible and hadn’t let anyone help him, once again. Gabriel never thought he needed anyone until it was too late.

            It was a stab wound. A quick, clean, and merciful death that Cas thanked God for. At least he hadn’t suffered.

            He was found in the parking lot of an abandoned hotel, angel wings painted onto the ground beneath him.

            The irony of this does not go unnoticed.

            It is a mockery of Gabriel’s sacred name. The unkown assailant knew who Gabriel was, and knew exactly how to unnerve the entire Novak family. His entire family is in unrest.

            “Just think of the scandal!” He overhears his Aunt Naomi whisper to his cousin Uriel viciously, as he stands above the coffin gravely. Castiel stares at the dimples and laugh lines in his brother’s face. The man was smiling even in death.

            “It’s Lucifer. It has to be…” He hears more murmurs behind him, and quickly backs away. He doesn't need to deal with the accusations. He has a brother to mourn.

            His father had demanded he discard his grungy trench coat for the funeral.

            He keeps it on. He knows Gabriel would have wanted him to.

            He will miss his mostly absent brother. Sure, Gabriel wasn’t perfect, but he was blood. He had left Cas to fend for himself in a time where he could have used him the most, but he understood why he left. Those early years were hell. Castiel used to hate Gabriel. Now he missed him. It’s funny how death can change your view of a person.

             When his brother’s casket is buried deep under the Earth and prayers are said, he returns home, alone.

            He lives with his family still, to keep up appearances. The house, which in reality is more of a mansion, sits awkwardly on the edge of Lawrence, and is no doubt the biggest house in the city. He has his own room on the top floor of the house, right across from Anna’s. She’s hardly ever in it, so he is usually alone. He hates living with his family while he goes to college. He wants to move into his own apartment on campus, but the great Novak family must stick together. Unless you happen to be someone even remotely rebellious, like his braver siblings Gabriel and Lucifer. Then you can escape. Castiel is obedient and loyal to his family. He doesn’t have the bravery to leave. He wishes he did.

            As he lies in his profligate king bed, he remembers Dean. The mystery boy who always seemed to linger in the back of his brain. Here he was, mourning a dead brother who had abandoned him, lying in his enormous mansion, while Dean was in that shack of a house with that awful man.

            _What goes on in that house?_  Castiel asks himself.

            It is nine o’clock when he begins to think about this. He lies in his bed and wonders, horrible scenarios and calming explanations presenting themselves to him in a blur of thoughts.

            It is ten o’clock when he can’t stand it anymore.

            He will not be able to get to sleep. He damns his concerned and suspicious personality as he creeps out of his bed and down the steps. The house is quiet and stale with grief and tension.

            He climbs into his Mercedes and it comes to life with a quiet purr.

            _It could be nothing_ , he tells himself. _Or it could be everything_.

            He makes it to Dean’s house at 10:30. His car idles along the curb as he stares up at the decrepit monstrosity Dean lives in.

            The house is a dirty grey and old cedar shake shingles are crumbling off the sides. A tall wooden fence surrounds the property, and a large shed sits in the back. A rusty old Mustang sits in the driveway. The neighboring house is vacant and looks like it has been for years. There are no other houses surrounding the place. _What an odd location for a house_ , Cas thinks. All the windows are obstructed by some odd household object, except for one. Situated in a gable of the old house, one window is clear.

            The light is on.

            Alastair Grey is standing in the window, looking down at him.

           He waves and closes the blinds.

            The man looks crazy. The gleam in his eye looks wicked even from Castiel’s distant point of view. His gaze is slimy and violating and Castiel shudders from the invasive nature of it. He feels like he was staring into the eyes of the Devil. He is horrified by the menacing and slightly insane look on his face and it nauseates him. He stares at the window for few more minutes before taking off.

            He leaves before he can hear the muffled scream of Dean Winchester echoing from the basement just three minutes later.

* * *

 

            “What did you do?” Alastair rages, picking Dean up and slamming him into a wall.

            “Your pretty little boy toy just drove by, Deanie Pie. You know what that means?” He growls while cutting off Dean’s oxygen supply.

            “It means you weren't careful. It means you misused the privilege I gave you. It means I have to do this.”

            He pulls out a serrated knife and plunges it handle deep into Dean’s leg.

            Dean looks down at where the blade juts out of his thigh. It doesn’t register for a few heartbeats. Then, Dean’s world explodes in pain. It feels like nothing he has ever felt before.

            Alastair has never gone this far. Dean has never felt a pain this all consuming. It is the pain of a dead man. He is going to die. He tries to howl around Alastair’s greasy hand, but the sound is blocked.

            He is going to die in here, all because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

            As his body slips into shock and unconsciousness, he knows Cas didn’t mean for this to be the outcome.

            He forgives him. That’s what you do for people that you love.

            “Shit.” He hears Alastair cuss as he finally loses his grip on reality and delves into the realm of the dying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, lots of torture going on here. 
> 
> I feel so bad for what I'm doing to Dean. It's very hard for me to write, actually.  
> I really tried to give you guys a better look into Castiel's life. It's kind of confusing now, but you'll understand all in good time. Damn, Alastair is even freaking me out. I hope I did okay with this chapter!
> 
> On another note:  
> YOU ALL ARE ADORABLE!!! I wish I could give everyone who actually reads this pie and a hug! Seriously, comments and kudos make my day. Keep being amazing!!  
> Love you guys! xx  
> -SJ


	9. The Lover

Dean wakes up on a hard surface of some kind.

            He can barely see through the groggy film of haze clouding his vision. He feels like he’s floating, and he doesn’t know why. He can’t think about his current condition or the gaping hole in his thigh, because nothing makes sense. He hasn’t felt like this since his first trip to the dentist when they gave him too much laughing gas to fill a cavity.

            He can’t focus on anything concrete until his brain dredges up a tan coat.

            Later on, Dean will tell Cas that he remembered that damned coat even when everything else was lost.

            Dean Winchester doesn’t know what romantic love is. His parents used to tell him they loved him. He loves them. He loves Sammy. It used to be so simple. Dean had originally thought of Cas as a friend; a person to talk to and someone to listen to. Then, Cas became more. He was a friend that cared about him and helped him to learn and to grow as a person. Now, as Dean lies on his death bed, he doesn’t think of the family who believes he is dead. Oh no, Dean Winchester thinks of his angel, the one who was there when no one else wasn’t.

            He wonders if Cas thinks of him too. Does he ever think of Dean while he’s in Theology 101 class? Does he miss Dean when he is home in his big lonely house with no one to vent to? Does he remember Dean when he marvels at the wonders of humanity? Does he care about Dean the way Dean cares about him? Does he frown when Dean isn’t there in the religion section at 4:00? Does he worry about Dean when he drives past Alastair’s house?

            While Dean should be thinking about how he is bleeding to death and the small matter of where the hell he actually is, all he can think is, _is it possible to come to love someone so quickly?_

            When he was a little child, a curious, innocent youngling, he used to ask so many questions.

            Why does Sammy cry all the time? Why is the sky blue? Why does Daddy always have to go away?

            He remembers one question in particular.

            “Why are those two boys kissing?”

            They were ordering food at Dean’s favorite restaurant, the name lost to him now, when he saw two middle aged men lightly peck each other on the cheek. It was just his mom with him, because Sammy was too little and had to stay home with Dad.

            Mary Winchester calmly turned to the couple and smiled.

            “They’re in love, sweetie. Isn’t that beautiful? Some boys love girls, some boys love boys, and some girls love girls. You can love anyone you want, honey.”

            He was called ‘gay’ for the first time in Kindergarten. More questions were asked of Mary. He knows what gay means now.

            Dean wonders if he is gay.

            If he thinks of Castiel’s blue eyes before he goes to sleep, or dreams of Cas’s arms holding him close and whispering, “you’ll be okay,” in his ear, does that make him gay?

            “Son of a fucking bitch.” Says a voice he knows far too well.

            Alastair is standing tall above Dean, menacing and for once not grinning. Dean slowly focuses in on the grey lifeless eyes.

            “Well. You almost died on me again. We couldn’t have that, you see. I’m not quite done with you, yet. Let this be a warning, Dean Winchester. One day, I just won’t feel like being merciful.” He pauses and Dean hears the slide of metal against metal, “One day, you won’t be good enough. Maybe I’ll go find Sammy, or Cas. Maybe they can take your place.”

            Dean freezes. The two most valued people in his life have just been threatened. He gnashes his teeth and curls back his lips.

            “Never, you bastard.” He tries to get up, his instincts urging him to get up and protect the ones he loves. He can’t even lift his head.

            “What did you do to me?” He slurs, his mind a swirling mass of confusion and anger. His tongue feels like a lump in his mouth, and his head feels heavy.

            “Don’t you worry, Deanie. Don’t you worry.” He feels a scratchy fabric cover his mouth, and smells something sharp and tangy hit his nostrils.

            The next time he wakes up he’s back in the basement. His head is still groggy and his body feels like it weighs a ton, but he’s still lucid enough to recognize that the fact that Alastair could have done anything to him while he was unconscious. He shivers.

            He has absolutely no motivation to get out of the position he is curled up in on the frigid floor.

            He feels a dull throbbing in in his right leg that will not fade. He looks down to his bare bottom half and sees two strips of fabric tied to his leg above and below the wound, and a wooden strip connecting them. There is some bloody gauze taped to the wound, but he doesn’t think it’s going to last long.

            He really doesn’t know how he’s alive, but he’s grateful for it.

            He slumps back down on the cool floor, staring at the wall.

            Alastair knows who Cas is now. Dean must have called out for him in his sleep.

            Dean has dreams of Cas. He dreams of luscious meadows and sunny beaches. He dreams that Cas is waiting for him there, trench coat and all, smiling and beckoning him over. He runs over to him, his legs pumping fast and without worry as he sprints to him.

            “Dean.” Cas will whisper in his ear when he’s finally in his arms. Sometimes, in the dream, Dean cries. He cries because this is the man he loves with his whole body and mind, who saved him from a lonely existence. He cries because at last he’s free. He cries because he is a man, and good men feel and cry, just like how Cas is crying with him. He isn’t a soldier anymore. He is Cas’s, not Alastiar’s or Dad’s. He belongs to Cas and he always will.

            Dean has only met Cas five times and he’s already dreaming about him. He thinks this is what “love at first sight” means. Although, as a boy he had always thought he’d fall in love with a girl. This no longer matters to Dean. He doesn’t find other boys attractive. Only Cas. Castiel is the sole exception.

            Love is a foreign feeling to Dean. It strange and new, and he is inexperienced in navigating it, but first love is a force that can conquer anything. Dean knows he will move mountains just to see Cas once more.

            How could he come to love someone he had only met five times at the library?

            Deep down, he knows why. When someone saves your life, you are bound to them forever. Castiel saved him from himself. As soon as he voiced those first fateful words,

            “May I sit with you?” Dean had fallen. He fell from all he’d ever known and into the arms of a perfect stranger.

            Mary would have liked Cas, Dean thinks. He pictures his mother meeting Cas for the first time. Cas would come over to their house after Dean insisted upon it. His mother would be baking a pie in the oven, and Cas would knock on the door. Dean would greet him with a bright smile and a dirty t-shirt, but Castiel wouldn’t mind. He would keep his trench coat on and slip off his shoes, and Dean would lead him into the kitchen. Mary would grin at them both and fawn over Cas like the mother hen she was. Maybe she would give him a hug and thank him for everything he had done for Dean. Then Sammy would come downstairs and shake hands with Cas, and Dean would blush like a sissy. They would sit down and eat apple pie, and John would join them after he got off work. John would play the protective father role well, and eventually warm up to Cas. Cas had that effect on people.

            His innocence and awkwardness was endearing, and it would melt the heart of all the Winchester’s. Dean vows to make sure Cas meets his family. He has to make it happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHH! I'm back, you guys! Sorry for the long break; it has been a hectic week and I just couldn't find the time. This is a shorter chapter, but I hope it gives you a fuzzy warm feeling like it gave me while I was writing it!
> 
> Question of the Day:  
> What's your favorite thing about the story? I need some motivation to write and you guys are what keep me going :)
> 
> *gives out cyber hugs and pie* Love you all! 
> 
> -SJ


	10. The Door

Castiel goes to the library the day after his encounter with Alastair Grey. He takes another route to the library so he doesn’t have to have that unsettled feeling overwhelm him and dilute his time at the library.  It is 3:55 when he pulls into the parking lot, and he waits in the car for five minutes until it reaches 4:00. When the clock strikes four, he slips out of his car and stalks into the library with a satchel slung over his shoulder.

            He heads right back to the Theology section, knowing Dean won’t be there but still shriveling when he can’t see him. Dean had become an integral part of his life, and Castiel was alarmed by how close they were getting. He thought about him when was most inconvenient.

            Say, for example, in Early Christian Lit. and History yesterday. While his Professor rambled on about something he knew he should pay closer attention to, he was thinking about showing Dean his favorite place in the world. When he wasn’t yearning for Dean’s company at the library, he longed to escape to the Novak’s cabin in Minnesota. It sat on a lake in the middle of nowhere. No neighbors, urban noises, or disturbances anywhere to be found. He liked to sit on the end of the pier as a child. He would sit on the bench at the end of the dock and watch the water ripple with life. He never fished, nor swam. He watched.

            Many a person had remarked upon the observant, melancholy nature of Castiel. From an early age, he had felt like it was his job to mourn the lost and to worship the living. He had always valued life itself; he loves the concept of humanity and their perfect flaws. His own life has no purpose but to watch. Dean is the perfect example of everything Castiel loves in a human. His innocence, his earnestness, his selflessness, his wondrous laugh, his kind and honest responses to any question posed to him; are all what Castiel thanks the Father for every day. Dean is a true masterpiece, painted by God with messy yet beautiful strokes. The Lord had created a hauntingly gorgeous man and let Castiel meet him.

            He waits in the library for five minutes pondering his favorite people and staring off into the distance. When he realizes he probably looks suspicious, he pops open his bag to study. He tries for thirty minutes, rereading the same passage about Hinduism ten times, but he is too distracted.

            The house across the street is watching him.

            He stands up, walks to the window and stares across the street at it. A rusty Mustang containing Alastair Grey is pulling out of the driveway. Dean is nowhere to be seen. This is the chance he has been waiting for. He quickly walks out of the library, desperate to get to the bottom of the situation. He leaves his car in the parking lot to avoid being recognized if he has to make a quick escape attempt.

            He walks as briskly as he can without looking strange, and stands in front of the house.

            He slows his pace to catch his breath and strides up to the ugly door. Two deep breaths are taken. Castiel knocks twice.

            He waits for a minute before knocking three more times.

            There is no response. Cas feels his heart sink. He slowly backs away from the entrance to the house, head bowed in sadness and disappointment. He is walking down the sidewalk when it happens.

            A broken yell and a loud thump.

            Castiel races back to the door and bangs on it more.

            “Are you alright? Hello? Let me in, Dean!” He begs, hoping to God with all his might that Dean is the one who answers. Seconds pass as Cas pounds on the door with increasing urgency.

            Then, the door swings open.

            Dean is sprawled out on the dirty carpet, his hand reaching out towards the door. His face is ghastly pale and sickly looking, and he’s panting in his brown t-shirt. His eyes are still a bright green.

            “Dean!” He lets out a strangled yell. He bends down to him, and looks for injuries. All the color leaves his face when he sees the bloodied tourniquet.

            “Cas,” Dean croaks. He grasps at the air, looking for purchase, and Cas gives him his hand to hold.

            “Dean, what happened?” He demands, looking at the distressed man.

            “I….” a pause, “tripped with a knife in my hand.” Castiel does not have time to argue with this apparent lie, so he brushes it off and addresses the wound.

            “Dean, if someone doesn’t remove this tourniquet you might lose your leg. We have to get you to a hospital, I’ll get my phone to call the police, just hold on—“

            “No! We have to stay here! I can’t leave, I have to stay, for,” he wheezes, and Cas knows the pain must be unbearable, “Sammy. I can’t leave, Cas. I can’t. Just help me. Please.”

            Dean gasps and twists in pain. Castiel is horrified. He looks down at the wound and the tourniquet. Back in high school he had taken a first aid class, but he was having trouble recalling what to do.  

            “Where can I lay you down?” He questions, voice calm and soothing, trying to conduct this energy into Dean.

            “The table over there,” Dean returned, his eye brows furrowing and his eyes squinting shut.

            Cas stands up, picks Dean up in his arms bridal style, and whisks him over to the greasy kitchen table, which Castiel realizes is already stained with blood. Cas thinks he is going to be sick. He holds it back for Dean. He has to help him. Dean on the other hand, cannot hold it back. He starts retching over the side of the table, and Cas rubs his back. He makes a note to clean that up later.

            “Shh, shhh, it’s going to be alright. Just breathe, Dean. I’m here.” He soothes, attempting to keep his voice from wavering.

            After Dean is done emptying the contents of his stomach over the table, he rolls over onto his back. Castiel prepares himself for the arduous task ahead of him. He thinks he remembers how to remove a tourniquet and stitch a wound.

            This is going to be horrific for the both of them.

            “Dean, I need you to look at me. Don’t pass out on me, Dean. Please, I need you to stay with me.” He commands, voice hard and demanding. He can’t fall unconscious for this, no matter how much of a release it might be.  
            Castiel looks around for something to stitch the wound with while pressing down on the injury.

            God must be looking out for them, because it seems as if someone has been stitched up recently. A spool of thread and a needle are sitting on the counter in the kitchen. He brushes his hand against Dean’s face to calm him down before he rushes over to seize the supplies.

            “Cas, it hurts.” Dean mumbles, pain lacing his voice and making Cas wince.

            “I know, Dean. I know. I’m going to try to fix it, okay?” He applies more pressure to the wound and starts to remove part of the tourniquet with his other hand.

            “Okay, Cas. Love you.”

            And suddenly Cas has a purpose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quicker update today (yay!) because you guys inspired me so much.
> 
> I know tourniquets are risky things to use, and I tried to do research on how they work. I believe that in Dean's case, it would be most appropriate. If I have any readers who find that I am incorrect in any of my amateur injury descriptions, please correct me. 
> 
> On another note, this story is super hard to write without an editor. I have so many ideas I want to run by somebody and I don't have anyone to talk to. It's very frustrating and I wish I had an advisor of some sort. Sorry for the rant, there. 
> 
> Question of the Day: Who wants Mary back? ;)


	11. The Laughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the lovely sycho, I know now that Cas has to stop the bleeding using pressure, and not stitches. Let's all send some love their way, hmm?

There are groans. There are screams. There are smiles.

            Cas tends to a broken Dean with care and grace.

            After a closer examination, Castiel realizes that sutures are not needed. He has to apply pressure to the wound. He surmises that the blade has not hit a major artery, otherwise Dean would be dead by now. Cas sends a silent prayer of thanks to God that he found him in time.

            The poorly administered tourniquet is lose enough that Castiel thinks Dean won’t suffer any tissue damage. The circumstances are just right.

            Castiel gently holds Dean down onto the table while carefully applying pressure to the stab site. Dean hisses and writhes in pain, but Cas’s calming presence at his side prevents him from going into shock. When the bleeding has slowed significantly and Dean has stopped the moans that made Cas feel like he was the one bleeding out, they start up a conversation.

            “So, how have you been?” Dean asks like he hasn’t just escaped from the clutches of Death. After the long and tension ridden silences from earlier, this casual question eases the hard set muscles in Castiel’s body. It is such a relief that Cas laughs. It is the euphoric laugh of a man who has almost lost his reason to live.

            After a few seconds, Dean joins in.

            Peals of relieved, delirious laughter ring through the empty kitchen, bringing life to a place of horrid darkness.

            It doesn’t matter that the stench of bile permeates the room, or that Alastair could walk in on them at any time. In this moment, it is just Dean and Cas; two lost souls in a world of horrors. They have each other, and that is all that matters.

             “I uh…” Castiel starts once the laughter has died out, “missed your company.” He’s blushing now, a bodily function he finds quite absurd.

            “I missed you too, Cas.” Dean whispers, his eyes closed as he lies on the grimy table. Cas is sitting on a chair beside him. They sit together in comforting silence, and Cas takes the time to admire Dean’s looks.

            Even in sickness, Dean’s body is strong and well-built. His jaw line is angular and proud. Stubble shadows the chiseled landscape of his face, making him look regal in all his sickly glory. Pink, full lips and a pert nose accentuate the emerald green eyes Cas knows are hidden underneath fragile eyelids, fringed by long lashes that any woman would envy. His hair is rugged and crudely buzzed, for convenience Castiel assumes, not style. Cas guesses Dean is around 25. He doubts that Dean went to college at all, or that he worked a day in his life. Dean is so compelling, yet so subdued. It breaks Castiel’s heart to see the worry lines in Dean’s face, even when he is semi-relaxed.

            Suddenly, Dean jolts up from the table, alarmed and frantic.

            “Dean, what is it?” Cas questions, his heart now wedged in his throat. He pushes Dean back down on the table somewhat roughly, trying to convey that he needs to stay still. He can’t exert himself like this.

            “Calm down!” Cas commands, begging Dean to slow his panicked movements.

            “Alastair.” Dean gasps out, trying to push Cas away.

            “You have to go! He’s going to come back soon!” Dean warns, waving his hands weakly to gesture to the door. Castiel can tell that Dean doesn’t truly want him to leave.

            “No.”

            It is all it takes to break Dean. He doesn't beg anymore.

            “Okay.” He mumbles, his resolve crumbling. If Alastair comes home to find them both, so be it. Dean will do anything to prolong these precious moments.

            “My brother died.” Cas confides quietly, his head bowed and his hands folded, like he’s praying.

            “Gabriel?” Dean asks somberly.

            “Yes. I will miss him greatly.”

            “I’m sorry, Cas. I know you loved him.”

            “I did. I still do.”

            “I miss my Mom. She’s dead too.”

            “Oh, I had no idea, Dean. I’m sorry to hear that.”

            “It’s been a long time. I still miss her, though.”

            “What was she like?”

            Dean’s throat tightens. He has never spoken to another person about his mother before.

             “She was beautiful. She had hair like the sun and eyes like yours. She had such a pretty smile, and she made me laugh all the time. She never got sick of answering my questions, and boy, did I have a lot. I miss her every single day. I’ll never see her again.”

            Cas’s heart wants to fracture at the pain laced in Dean’s voice. The grief there is akin to that of an old man who has just lost his wife of fifty years. The pain there is old, yet still raw and bleeding.

            Dean’s wounds on the outside may have stopped bleeding, but Cas knows Dean is drowning in blood on the inside.

            “She sounds like an amazing woman. I wish I could have met her.” Cas answers truthfully. He wishes to meet Dean’s family someday. He wants to thank them for creating such a beautiful life.

            It occurs to Castiel then that there is still a pool of vomit on the floor. He doesn’t think Alastair is the type that would take to kindly to this.

            “I’m going to clean up now, Dean.” He tells him, standing up in search of rags. The fluid itself does not faze him, it really doesn’t. He is not afraid to do anything if it saves Dean from peril. He mops up the vomit quickly and efficiently, Dean apologizing and pleading to do it himself all the while.

            “You are in no condition to be moving around, Dean. Let me do this for you.”

            “You’ve already done so much.” Dean whispers, tears threatening to spill from his weary eyes. How had he gotten so lucky? _Cas really is an angel_ , Dean thinks.

            “It’s not nearly enough.” Dean believes he hears over the sloshing of water next to him.

            After what feels like an eternity of suffering, Dean finally has a reason to smile. Castiel, his angel, is here at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the somewhat long wait; I haven't been able to access a computer and I actually had to write this chapter down on paper! That was sort of a pain, but it just goes to show how much I love you guys! 
> 
> Question of the Day:  
> Just out of curiousity, what time zone are you guys in? I'm in Central time. 
> 
> Read, comment, and kudo!  
> Love you all! xx  
> -SJ


	12. The Warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to singreader for helping me and inspiring me to write this chapter! Let's all send her internet hugs, yeah?

            Cas is horribly conflicted.

            His family has taught him not to meddle in other people’s business, but this is his friend, and Dean is scared. Sure, Cas had been scared of his family too; the horrible yelling matches at midnight with no one to comfort him but a thirteen year old Gabriel. His brothers had never laid a finger on him though, and if someone would have called the police back then just just based on young Castiel’s skittish personality, there would have been repercussions.  Cas would have been screamed at by his entire family. He had to follow his orders; what happened inside the Novak house, stayed inside the Novak house. Who was he to jump to extremes and call the police to investigate if Dean was only afraid of Alastair’s temper? It really wasn’t his business, but he had to ask. He had to make sure.

            “Dean, why can’t I take you to the hospital?” Dean turns his head to look at him, a reluctant expression on his face.

            “It’s my family. We uh…” he trails off, peering at the door with a panicked glance, “I have to stay here for them. No one can know I’m here, Cas. I’m here and they’re safe. That’s all that matters. I just can’t leave. I’ll be fine. See, you patched me up nice and good!” He gestures to his bandaged thigh with something close to a smile.

            Suspicion arises in Cas, but he stows it away in a file for later.

            “Do you go to school?” He asks, tapping his worn Italian leather shoes on the linoleum.

            “I don’t anymore.” There is a hint of sadness in Dean’s tone. Cas can recognize that Dean got pulled out of school for some reason or other, and that he yearns to go back.

            “Do you work?”

            “I um…work at my dad’s friend’s auto shop. Singer’s Salvage Yard.” Cas doesn’t know where this is.

            “Okay, that’s a start. Do you have any siblings?” He can see Dean visibly wince, and he wants to reach into the air and take back the question, just so he doesn’t have to see the tortured expression on his face.

            “I have a little brother. His name is Sammy.”

            “That’s nice. Does Sammy look like you?”

            “Not really. He has brown hair, and brownish eyes. He’s smaller than me, too.”

            “How old is he?” Dean freezes. He stares at wall in concentration for a few seconds, and then bows his head in shame.

            “I don’t know. He was born on May 2nd. Yes, that’s right. His birthday is May 2nd. Mine is January 24th. When’s your birthday, Cas?”

            “Christmas. I’m going to be 27 this year.”

            “Wow, you’re getting old, Cas!” Dean laughs. It’s such a brilliant sound. It warms Cas in places that haven’t been warm since his mother last held him and kissed him goodnight.  It’s been a long time since Cas has felt this happy.

            Just then, a car engine rattles outside.

            Cas stands up, almost knocking over his chair. Dean tries weakly to lift himself up, but the effort is futile. His entire body is rigid.  Cas walks over to the window and peers between the blinds.

            Silence pelts Dean like he’s being stoned to death. The air is slowly being pressed out of his lungs. They’re going to die. All because Dean is greedy. He is so stupid, so incredibly stupid—

            “It’s the neighbors.” Cas whispers, turning back to Dean. He can breathe again. Adrenaline rushes through his system, leaving him nauseas and dizzy and downright panicked.

_He’s going to find us. He’s going to find us and kill us,_ Dean thinks. _I need to get Cas out of here._

            Alastair’s absences are erratic and unpredictable. Sometimes he leaves Dean alone for days. Sometimes for hours, sometimes even minutes. He never tells Dean where he goes. Maybe he’s working, maybe he’s drinking, or maybe he’s out trying to find his next victim.

            Why had he agreed to let Cas stay so easily?

            Dean knows why.

            He’s being reckless and irresponsible, risking Cas’s life for this stupid reason. He’s so goddamn lonely. Castiel fills a void in his soul he didn’t know he needed filled. Dean just can’t seem to let him go. It would be like ripping a part of himself out. Cas has been woven into the very fibers of his being, and it is irrevocable.

            “Cas.” Dean whispers when Cas is next to him once more.

            “Yes, Dean?” He responds, sitting back down beside his invalid friend.

            “You really have to leave, Cas. My uh…” Dean stumbles over the ugly lie, “uncle won’t like it if he finds out I had you over without asking him.”

            Cas grabs his hand in his smooth one, and wow, Dean has never felt this warm before.

            “Tell him to take you to a doctor. If I can’t convince you, maybe he can. You need to keep a good eye on that so it doesn’t get infected. He needs to change out the bandages soon, too.” He hesitates before adding, “Do you promise you’ll get help?”

            “Yes, I promise.” Dean lies. _Please, please stay with me, Cas!_ He screams inside of his head, _please, I need you. I miss you._

            “Let me lie you down on the couch before I go, alright?” Cas asks, smoothing his thumb over Dean’s hand.

            “You don’t have to—“ He barely gets out before he’s back in Cas’s arms again, like he’s some sort of baby. He doesn’t care that he’s being treated like an infant, because Cas’s warmth surrounds him and comforts him in ways he desperately needs. He feels safe.

            He is set carefully back down on the threadbare sofa, his leg propped up gently on a coffee table.

            “You need to keep this elevated.” Cas warns him as he stands up. He continues,

            “I will see you soon, Dean. Good bye.”

            “Bye Cas. Thank you.” Cas nods his head.

            “I shall miss you very much, Dean. Take care of yourself for me.” Dean thinks he hears. It could just be his imagination, hoping for something that isn’t there.   

            Then, he is walking away, away from Dean and leaving him in the house from hell.

            As soon as Dean hears the door shut, he lets out a sob.

            A single, teary sob is all he allows himself.

            He needs to drag himself back down the stairs now.

            Cas would beg him not to do this to himself.

            He does it anyway. Cas doesn’t know that Dean is protecting him. He’s protecting everyone by staying here, and why can’t they just see that?

            He has to stay. He has to.

            Slowly, inch by inch, he eases himself off the couch. He groans in pain as his bum leg hits the floor with a thud.

            He drags himself out of the living room and to the door of the basement.

            Dean is pondering how to get down the steps when he hears the door start to open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this was really fun to write. I hope you guys liked it. I have a definitive vision now for where I want the plot to go, and I'm so excited to show you guys! *excited squealing* 
> 
> Question of the Day:  
> Who is ready for the finale tomorrow? I know I'm not!!! 
> 
> Love you all! xx
> 
> -SJ


	13. The Sleepover

            He’s running. He’s running so fast towards him that the surroundings are a blur and all there is left is Dean, Dean, Dean.

            At first glance, it looks like a simple street length separating them. Then it becomes a mile, and a mile becomes a country, then a continent, and then the whole ocean is keeping them from each other.

            Yet Castiel can still see. He watches Alastair stand above a kneeling Dean. He watches Dean grovel at his feet. He watches as Dean crumples to the pavement like a wilted daisy. He watches as his eyes bleed black. He watches as Dean breathes his last breath while Alastair laughs.

            He’s stuck in an infinity of pain, forever running towards an impossible destination.

            “All beautiful things must die, Castiel.” A deadly voice grumbles, shaking the Earth and bringing gargantuan waves. The cold ocean water whisks something ashore. Cas looks down to see Dean’s body awash at his feet. He kneels down beside him, weeping crimson tears for the boy he lost at the hands of the unreachable enemy.

            “No!” He screams, holding him to his chest. Dean just gargles in response.

            Just then, he jolts awake, clutching at his down sheets and yells,

            “Dean!”

            He’s panting and sweating, and his whole body is a mess of emotions. It’s just a dream, he tells himself while trying to get his breathing under control. He just can’t seem to shake the feeling that Dean isn’t safe.

            There are footsteps padding down the hallway. He can hear them over the harsh, labored sounds of his lungs.

            Two knocks.

            “Castiel?”

            “Come in.” It’s Anna, his piston of a sister with red hair, the only Novak still in high school.

            “Are you alright? I could hear you from my room.”

            “I’m sorry, I hope I didn’t wake you up. It was just a nightmare, Anna. Go back to sleep.”

            Anna nods, her fiery hair bouncing with the motion. She turns to leave, and Cas rolls over in his bed. He waits for the click of the door closing, but it doesn’t come. He sits up in bed and peers out at the entryway. Anna is halfway out of the room and staring at him intensely.

            “Who is Dean?” She questions, her eyes curiously unguarded for once. Something in Cas’s mid torso flutters, and he decides right then that he finds the feeling enjoyable.

            “He’s my…” he pauses. What is Dean to him? A friend? A companion? A brother?

            “Friend.”

            Anna eyes him suspiciously, as fierce and as meddling as always.

            “No. He’s something more.” And then she closes the door, still in his room. She walks over and sits on his bed.

            “Spill.”

            The night that Cas tells his beloved sister of Dean is a long one. He leaves out details such as Dean “stabbing himself” or how terrified he looks all the time. Cas omits how he wants to count all the freckles on Dean’s face, or how he wants to tenderly press his lips to that rosebud mouth of Dean’s. What he does talk about is how Dean’s green eyes sparkle with the sun, and how he wants to teach him how to read Charles Dickens. They talk until Anna’s eyes are struggling to stay open. He can tell he’s losing the battle for her attention when she can’t finish a sentence without yawning.

            “Anael, go to sleep.” He uses her full name, caressing her hair softly. He used to do this for her when she was just a young child, curious and neglected. She has been starved of affection, just like all of the Novak children. It breaks his heart to see her so hungry for attention.

            “Do you love him?” She questions, her face hidden by her crimson hair.

            “I…might. I don’t know what love feels like.” He really doesn’t. Is love the warm feeling in his chest whenever he beholds Dean’s face? Is love the smile that comes to his face whenever he sees a person with green eyes? Is love yearning to hold someone in the wee hours of the night when the whole world doesn’t seem to give a damn about you? Is love cleaning up vomit and healing a wound for a man you’ve only met five times? Is love finally taking risks when your whole life you have been taught not to?

            “Love is like falling off a cliff. You have no choice in the matter, and you will most likely get hurt in the end. Yet love is the most beautiful thing God gave to us, Castiel. The freefall is the best part. It’s the landing you have to worry about.”

            “Have you ever been in love before, Anna?”

            “I think I might have, once.”

            “What was he like?”

            “He was so…gentle. He was 6’4 and clumsy as a moose, but he held my hand like it was the most precious thing in the world. He used to call me ‘darling’, and scoop me up in his arms like I weighed nothing. I used to come over to his house, sobbing about Lucifer and Michael and he would hold me and run his fingers through my hair, because he knew all I needed was for him to be there.”

            “What happened?”

            “He moved.”

            “Oh, I’m sorry, Anna. I had no idea.”

            “It’s okay. It’s been awhile,” She breaks off into silence, drilling a hole in Castiel’s door with her lifeless, hard stare.

            “So, are you gay?” Anna deadpans, straight and to the point. Castiel senses no judgment from her, but he is still reluctant. He decides to tell her. He has nothing to lose. 

            “I think so. I do not believe the Lord will damn me for falling in love. It should not matter my genitalia, as long as I am happy. I think He will not punish me.” He justifies, feeling like he needs to explain himself. Anna doesn’t even flinch.

            “Okay. I'm totally fine with it, and I will support you 100%.” She says, calmly and shockingly accepting. Relief floods Castiel. He has never told anyone his secret. This is why Cas loves Anna. He had forgotten how wonderful her company could be, when she wasn’t screaming at Michael or staying out past her curfew.

            “Go back to bed, Anna. Thank you, for tonight. Sleep well.” She crawls off of his bed and slinks over to the door.

            “Goodnight, Castiel. Don’t let him slip through your fingers. He sounds like a keeper.” As she shuts the door, Cas thinks this is the first time he’s seen his sister smile in years.

            The next morning, Cas wakes up at noon with an aching stomach and a pounding headache. He really needs to take care of himself better. He hasn’t had anything to eat since breakfast yesterday, and his stomach twists and growls in discontent.

            The house is empty, as it usually is on Saturday. Michael is off to work and Anna is probably hanging out with friends. His father has been gone for weeks on a trip to China. All the rest of the Novak’s are either dead or disowned.

            The house is too big for such a small, quiet family.

            As Cas pours himself a bowl of cereal, he feels the familiar loneliness start to creep into his mind.

            He stuffs it down with Cheerio’s in milk, and returns back to his room.

            He sits down at his desk and opens a browser.

            For the first hour, he works on his report like a good, little student. After the first hour all he can think about is,

            “His birthday is May 2nd. Mine is January 24th.”

            The next thing he knows he is on the phone with an employee from the Archives at KU.

            “Yes, I’d like to know if you have birth records I can look through. Yes, I can hold.”

            He has to find out who Dean is.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the wait between updates! The season finale really screwed me up and I thought I had the flu. The good news is that I don't have the flu. The bad news is that I have to wait till October before I can see my beloved boys on the screen again *sobs violently* I've already started another fanfic to help me get through the hiatus. I swear, fanfiction is the only thing that's gonna get me through the summer. Thank you all for reading! Read, kudo, and comment! 
> 
> Question of the Day:  
> Who do you think Anna's ex boyfriend is? ;) 
> 
> Love you guys! xx  
> -SJ


	14. The Empty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, you guys! xx

            “Dean…” Alastair croons as he steps into the house.

            Dean’s heart is in his throat now, as he scrambles down the steps. His leg is screaming and stinging with pain, and his teeth are grinding in determination and anguish. He will not be punished for staying alive.

            But then, his uncoordinated feet stumble over the lip of a stair and he’s falling.

            He lands at the bottom of the stair case with a groan.

            “Oh, well look what we have here…” Dean knows he’s screwed when he hears the voice echo down to where he lies, sprawled out pathetically on the cement floor.

            He can see the tips of Alastair’s shoes at the door, and he scoots back frantically to the wall.

            Lumbering footfalls reach his ears, and he thinks he’s going to be sick with worry.

            At the last second, he looks at his bandaged leg and realizes Alastair left him with a tourniquet, which now happens to be mysteriously gone. He wants to sob and scream at once.

            In the precise moment Dean realizes this, Alastair comes tumbling down the stairs and lands at Dean’s feet. He looks down at his captor.

            Alastair’s tongue hangs limply out of his mouth; his eyes are closed, and his head is lolled to the side.

            He’s unconscious. Alastair is no longer preventing him from leaving.

            I’m going to be free! The announcement rings through Dean’s brain with a gusto, plastering the statement to the walls of his mind. Free.

            He drags himself to the staircase, his leg bouncing horridly behind him. He’s going to be free! Free like Cas, free like Sam, free like Benny, and all those people from the library.    

            He makes it to the top of the steps, drunk with the exhilaration of escape and giddy with anticipation.

            His body somehow maneuvers itself to the living room, singing with agony and excitement. He’s going to be free. He slides his now bloodied hand to the doorknob, red with the blood from his leg, which he realizes is now gushing freely once more. The knob turns. The door opens.

            Fresh, clean night air rushes in to welcome Dean, the child harbored in a pit of despair.

            Come, Dean Winchester, it whispers. Come be free.

            And then he’s outside, his body half out of the doorway.

            Freedom is crisp on his tongue. He smiles.

            He struggles until the rest of his body is outside, and then leans up against the cement steps. He made it. A laugh escapes his lungs; a sweet, yet tart guffaw of amazement. A single bark of a laugh is all that he lets out in his first moment of liberation. He wishes he wouldn’t have laughed. It was almost as if he was subconsciously mocking his attempt at escape. In hindsight, it really was laughable.

            Rough, dirty hands reach out to cover his mouth, just like they did all those years ago on the sidewalk, keeping his screams in.

            Dean is as scared now as he was then. The fear never fades.

            He wishes he didn’t feel a damn thing.

*

            “I’m looking for birth records of a Dean that was born on January 24th.”

            “I’m going to need a surname and a date of birth, sir.”

            “Try Grey. I don’t have a date of birth.” Castiel produces, on the off chance that Alastair is the brother of Dean’s father, and not his mother. He hears the click-click of a keyboard as the librarian enters the name into the database.

            “We do not have any records of a Dean Grey in Lawrence, Kansas.”

            “Okay, thank you.”

            “Have a good day, sir.”

            “You too.”

            Cas slams the phone shut, his teeth gritting with barely suppressed frustration. Why couldn’t Dean just give him his last name? Why couldn’t he give him the year he was born, or the name of his mother? Why couldn’t he give him a reason to take him out of that godforsaken shithole of a house?

            Questions ping around inside of his head, bouncing off of each other and causing more anger.

            He wants to drive back to that house and grab Dean. He wants to pick him up in his arms and set him down in the passenger seat of his Mercedes, careful not to jostle his leg. He wants to bring him home to his empty room, in his empty house, with its empty inhabitants. He wants to take all that Dean has to give, so he isn’t empty anymore.

            Cas wants to press his lips to Dean’s scruffy jawline. He wants to take the soft skin of his neck into his mouth, leaving a beautiful blossom of purple that will show everyone that Dean is his. He wants to lace his fingers through that silky hair; he wants to tease a moan out of Dean’s delicate throat. He wants to make Dean forget the world, and he wants to forget it all with him. Most of all, Cas wants Dean to want him too. He doesn’t want to be alone anymore. He wants to belong.  

            Michael would say he is lustful and greedy. Cas knows he wants too much--that doesn’t mean he stops wanting it, though.

            He stays up all night again, combing through endless Deans until he finally goes to sleep with the name permanently etched under the tender lids of his eyes.

            The dream tonight is different.

            This time, Dean is at his knees, looking up at Cas with horribly frightened eyes. Cas bends down to caress his face, to tell him that it’s okay, and that he won’t hurt him. Dean backs away from his hand, and looks at it with a horror that makes Castiel’s whole body rot. He is clutching a knife.

            The blade, once silver, drips crimson blood onto the cement ground.

            Horrified, he tries to rid himself of the weapon, shaking his hand and trying to dislodge it. The handle stays in his fist, taunting him for his sins. Terror sweeps through him slowly, climbing up his throat until he can taste the bitterness of it on his tongue.

            He can hear Dean chanting,

            “No, no, Cas, please, no,” on the ground, rocking back and forth and cowering from him.

            Blood drips to the ground in a rhythmic pattern, making the same sound over and over again.

            _Dean. Dean. Dean._

            “You’re killing him, Castiel.”

            _Dean. Dean._

            “It’s all up to you.”

            And then he jolts awake to his empty room, his heart and soul empty once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, everyone! Did anyone pick up on the line from the actual show? On a side note, it is literally painful to read anything that I've written because to me it all looks like rubbish. I don't think I'm a very good author, and I truly cannot believe you guys are reading this story at all! I love every single one of you! I would've quit this story long ago if it wasn't for you all. So, thank you from the bottom of my heart. 
> 
> Lots of Love,  
> -SJ xx
> 
> Question of the Day:  
> Do you actually like this story? I love writing it, but it's my first published story, and I am very critical of what I've written. Thanks again! <3


	15. The Bible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the filler!

He knew this was going to happen. He always knows that he won’t win, because he never does. The odds are eternally against him.

            As that terribly, terribly familiar hand smothers him and drags him back inside the cavern of darkness, he closes his eyes in resignation. His body goes lax and he puts all his energy into keeping from falling apart. Dean Winchester is tired of fighting. Alastair drags him down the stairs, each step dislodging a little piece of Dean’s spirit as he is jostled by their sharp edges.

            A dull, aching pain is drowning his brain, distracting him from the fact that the punishment is going to be gruesome this time. Alastair won’t dare to go as far as last time, another twinge in his wounded leg reminds him, but the torture will be….more creative. One time, the day after a visit to the library, which seems to Dean like eons ago, Alastair was waiting for him with a bible open in his hand.

            “Read to me,” He had said, smiling that eerie grin that never failed to make Dean’s stomach melt into a puddle at his feet.

            “Yes, sir.” Dean said, gently grabbing the holy book from him and keeping it open to the place Alastair had wanted. It was open to _Revelation 19:19-21._

            “And I saw the beast, and the kings of the earth, and their armies, gathered together to make war against him that sat on the horse, and against his army. And the beast was taken, and with him the false…pro…pro…” Dean struggled, glaring at the offending word as if his stare would burn it right off the page.

            “Oh, is little Deanie stuck on a word? Does he need some help?” Before Dean could answer, the book was taken from his hands and thrown at the wall.

            “You dumb, little fuck. What am I going to do with you? I let you go out in public, and this is what I get? An illiterate 2nd grader?” Alastair growled, grabbing Dean by the hair and yanking his head up to gaze at him.

            “I’m sorry,” Dean grinded out, “Sir.” His captor laughed. He laughed hysterically, insanity bleeding through the sound. It made Dean want to cringe.

            “I’ll try harder next time. I promise.” Dean swore, flinching and preparing for the inevitable blow.

            It didn’t come. He raised his eyes in question.

            “Dean. Do you know why I chose you?” He paused, looking over at his prisoner with a soft smile, “You spoke to me, with your pretty green eyes and giant bright smile. You loved too hard and didn’t think enough. So vulnerable. So perfect. So…beautiful. Just ripe for the taking…” he cooed, tracing his finger down Dean’s stubbly chin.

            “You are my life, Dean.” He whispered in his ear, doing something with his hands Dean refused to really think about.

            “I have no one else.” And he began a new type of torture, pleasuring Dean in sick, twisted ways. He didn’t want to feel good, and Alastair knew it. It is so much worse.

            Now, as he lands at the bottom of the cellar with a smack, he hopes for physical violence. Anything is better than unwanted pleasure. Torture isn’t supposed to feel good.

            When Alastair slurs, “You’re gonna get it this time, boy.” Dean realizes he’s intoxicated.

            He feels the drunken kicks in his side, and he thanks the angels that this is something he can deal with. He’s in the habit of praying to angels now; God abandoned him the day he was ripped away from everything he knew and taken to hell. Angels aren’t from God. Angels are humans, like his mother or Castiel, people who love and care for him. He prays to them because he knows they’re real. He’s met them before.

            He closes his eyes to embrace the beating. He is almost grateful for the distraction from the fact that he’s a failure; a complete and utter waste of space.

            “You’re mine, Dean.”

            _Please, Castiel, save me._

* * *

 

            The morning after Cas dreams of murder, he wakes up with the urge to skip class.

            He has never skipped a college class before due to his hard work ethic that has been bred into him. Dean has changed the very foundations of his personality. Cas doesn't even mind.

            Something about the nightmare unsettles something deep inside the very core of his body, and he can’t deny his need to investigate. He’ll have to get notes from Uriel later.

            After he sees Michael’s car pull out of the driveway, he pulls on his suit and his tattered trench coat. When he passes a mirror in the living room, he barely notices that his tie is on backwards. He really doesn’t care.

            He climbs into his damn Mercedes that he loathes with every molecule in his body and starts driving. He knows where he’s going, subconsciously, before he makes that familiar turn onto Purgatory Road. He sits in the library parking lot, watching the dew sparkle on the grass. He can just see the decrepit Mustang sitting in the driveway from his perch, and he waits for it to pull out. There are no lights on in the house, which is odd for 10 AM on a Monday. He sits in that parking lot for a half an hour.

            Finally, at 10:36, the red Mustang squeals out of the driveway. From where Cas is, he can’t spot the shape of Dean in the seat beside him.

            The next minute, he’s already pulled up next to that ugly house and stepping out of his car. He walks up to the ivy infested home and takes a deep breath.

            He knocks three times.

            There isn’t an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kind words on last chapter! It's been a tough few weeks and I think I'm finally okay now. :)  
> This is a filler chapter and I'm so sorry for that. I just had to get something out for you guys and this is what happened. I hope you keep reading! Comment and kudo, please!  
> You guys are all beautiful souls, and I love you all so much! xx 
> 
> Question of the Day:  
> I have been wanting to write some random one shots and I've already written a couple. Would anyone be interested in reading them if I posted some? Thanks, darlings! 
> 
> -SJ


	16. The Coat

            The unfamiliar weight of terror constricts Castiel’s throat and weakens his knees. He thinks his stomach’s contents is going to be splattered all over the sidewalk, and _oh my God, Dean is gone, where is he? Where the hell is he?_

            He waits for an agonizing minute, trying to hold in the overwhelming panic. He can sense that something is wrong, something is horribly wrong. He can’t wait any longer.

            He tries the doorknob and twists it. He really doesn’t know what he was hoping for, but the damn thing is locked. Horror clashes into his body like waves on the shore, and he frantically pounds on the door, yelling,

            “Dean!” In the most civilized yet urgent way possible. Nothing.

            _He’s here, he’s always here! Why isn’t he here?_

            The logical part of him that would normally suggest that Dean really is gone somewhere, or that he just can’t hear him is stunned into silence by the fierce protective instincts coursing through him. Dean is here. He knows it.

            He is just about to violently kick down the door like a mad man when it swings open to reveal Dean.

            Relief flushes through his hyperventilating body in an instant, and it’s a relief that’s horribly dangerous. He is hopelessly attached to this man. He is hopelessly and irrevocably attached to this man without a last name and a story unknown. He can’t think of anyone else he’d rather attach to. Such a beautiful enigma, Dean is. A gorgeous mystery just waiting to be solved. Castiel has never been good at solving things.

            The next thing he knows his arms are around Dean, pulling him in close to his body and embracing him tightly. This is the first time Cas has ever initiated a hug. It’s the most delicious feeling in the world when he feels Dean squeeze back.

            Cas notices that Dean is a little taller than him.

            For some reason, he finds this endearing. They fit together like puzzle pieces. He can’t imagine what it would feel like to wake up to him in his arms, or to go to sleep by his side. He wants to know what that feels like.

            “Cas.” Dean whispers in that tragically beautiful broken tone of his, and Cas realizes something. Dean needs this, whatever this is, as much as he does.

            “Dean.” He says back, clutching his body even closer.

            This is what he lives for. This is his purpose.

            After a couple more seconds of hugging, they pull away. Cas tries not to think of how much he really didn’t want to let go.

            “C’mon, hurry. I don’t know when he’ll be back,” Dean says as he ushers him into the decaying house with a hasty look outside. As soon as both their bodies are outside of the door’s path, Dean quickly closes it.

            They stand in front of the entryway, staring at each other with an intensity one could easily mistake for passion.

            “You shouldn’t have come back.” Dean whispers, finally breaking their staring match and averting his eyes to the floor.

            “Why? I wished to see you.” Cas answers candidly. Why should he lie to Dean? It’s the truth.

            “Because he’s gonna find out, eventually. He always does.” Dean mutters, wiping sweat off his brow from the unusually hot May weather. Cas is sweating in his trench coat, and the stifling conditions in the room aren’t helping. He shrugs out of its worn sleeves and hangs it over the side of the couch.

            “Who? Alastair? He’s your uncle, I’m sure he’ll--” Cas is interrupted by Dean’s seething growl of,

            “He’s not my family.”

            “I thought you said he was your uncle? My mistake, I apologize.” Cas backpedals, disgusted with himself for putting the horrified look on Dean’s face.

            “It’s okay, Cas.” And the subject drops.

            “So, do you live here then?” A pause.

            “…Yes.”

            “Where’s your room?”

            Absolute panic erupts in Dean. He wants to kick Cas out and grab onto him at the same time and it’s all so damn confusing. He doesn’t even have a proper room. He can’t show Cas the cellar; as soon as he sees the conditions he was living in and the blood stained floor, the police would be called and Sammy would die. They’d all die. Everyone would die.

            He has to think quickly.

            “It’s a mess right now. Really, you don’t want to go in there.” Cas nods his head and lets it go, sensing that Dean doesn’t want to speak about it.

            Just then, he gazes over Dean’s shoulder to see two library books perched on the edge of the table. He smiles.

            “Would you like to read?” Cas asks, gesturing to the books with that foreign grin on his face. He’s not used to smiling.

            “Yes, please.”

* * *

 

            Twenty minutes later, and they’re one chapter into their novel. Cas watches Dean’s eyes as they scan the pages, eating up the words like a starving child.

            It’s one of the most wondrous things he’s ever seen, watching Dean learn. He doesn’t mind the pauses between words, or that he has to teach Dean how to pronounce words every other sentence. He knows he could listen to him read all day.

            After Dean finishes chapter one, Cas demands he close the book.

            “I can read more!” Dean insists, but Castiel shakes his head.

            “Let’s do something easier. How about I tell you some more about myself?” Dean nods his head eagerly, gently placing the book back on the counter.

            “I like the color green. My favorite composer is Bach. I don’t know how to play any instruments, and I’m horrid at singing. No matter how many church services I attend, I still sound like a dying cow.” Dean laughs, and it’s like bells to his ears.

            “I am a fan of classic literature. I’m allergic to cats. I’ve never gone on a vacation. I love my trench coat and I’ve worn it since high school. I bought it for myself on a whim, and now I never take it off. I miss my mother who I’ve never met, and I miss my brothers and sisters. I love cloudy days, chamomile tea, and silk sheets. I like the smell of sandalwood. I hate my Mercedes and my house. I love humanity and all its facets, and I wish I could study them all my days.”

            Dean is full on smiling now, and they stare at each other with gentle fondness.

            “Thank you, for telling me all that. It really—“

            CRASH.

            “Dammit!” A curse from outside drifts in from the front door.

            He’s home.

            “Cas, you have to leave.” Dean warns, springing up off the couch and tugging Cas with him.

            “Go!” He whisper yells as he shoves Cas towards the back of the house,

            “Out the back door! Hurry!”

            A door opens. Another closes.

            Cas is safe, but Dean isn’t.

            Minutes later, when Cas’s adrenaline is still pumping through him and he is driving away from that mysterious house, he realizes something.

            He’s forgotten his trench coat. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! That was a long one! I hope this makes up for my slow update! I apologize! This was fun to write, and I think it helps deepen the bond between Dean and Cas. Sorry for the cliffhanger, guys. *winces* I'm sorry!
> 
> On a side note, I've just come to the realization that this story of mine has actually gotten quite popular. This story, that I had originally planned on not posting, now has 300 kudos and 5,000 hits. I cannot even to begin to express how absolutely astonished I am. Truly, this is surreal for me. I love every single one of you. It is a dream of mine to someday publish a book, and you, my lovely readers, have given me the confidence, motivation and inspiration I need to actually write something worthy of publication. I am so grateful to all of you. 
> 
> So really, I don't deserve the kudos. You all do. 
> 
> Lots of love,  
> SJ
> 
> P.S I posted some one shots, so go check them out if you please!


	17. The Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of stuff happening here! Eek!

            The peculiar thing about fear is that its onset can change so easily. It can seep into your brain slowly, a viscous, free form, or it can hit you like an arrow to the head.

            Dean is very familiar with fear. You would think, after years of feeling the same gut-wrenching panic he would be immune by now. When Alastair opens that wooden door and its bang reverberates through the room, when he hears the whoosh of the back door closing, it’s the arrow this time.

            The fear lanced through him mixes with the drunken feel of relief, relief that Cas is safe.

            He knows, in that moment, that he would take an infinite number of beatings just to make sure Cas never has to feel the utter terror Dean experiences daily.

            He should be in the basement. He knows it. Alastair knows it. He stares at the ground pathetically, caught in the act.

            His ears choose to hone in on the clanging sound of keys being tossed onto a table. He waits, shoulders hunched, not brave enough to look him in the eyes this time. The last time he stared at him, it only made things worse. Submissive and silent is Dean, going against every atom in his body. He wants to fight. Even after all these horrible years of agony, the fight has yet to be beaten out of him yet.

            Dirty tennis shoes are in Dean’s view now, and he doesn’t dare look up. He can’t bear to see the slimy, lifeless eyes gaze, leering at him with an evil that even the Devil couldn’t rival.

            “Hello Dean.” Alastair perfectly articulates, and something dies in Dean when he realizes he’s perfectly sober.

            “Today, I met a little boy. His name was Tommy.” He begins, and Dean raises his eyes just enough to see him walk over to the kitchen counter. He hears the metallic slide of a knife being unsheathed. He inhales quickly, making an audible gasping sound.

            “He had blonde curls and blue eyes. He had the cutest damn smile, Dean. Just the most adorable thing. He was lost in the grocery store, and I just couldn’t stop staring. He looked about, I don’t know, four or five. You see, little Tommy reminded me of you, back when I took you on the side of the road, oh, you remember. I was just about to walk over and snag him, but his mother swooped in and snatched him up. Isn’t that a shame, Dean? You could’ve had a playmate. Now, I’m very disappointed because I really wanted something new to play with. You’re getting old, Dean. You’re just not as exciting to me anymore. I see two options here. I can either kill you, maybe scoop out your eyeballs and show you your own intestines before you bleed out, or…” He trails off, pressing a frigid blade to Dean’s throat.

            “Or, you can give me the best damn time of my life and maybe I’ll show you some mercy instead. Which shall it be, Dean? I’d enjoy both. Oh, and maybe if you choose option A, I’ll throw your little friend Cas in the mix. Maybe I’ll bring him here so he can watch as I slit your stomach open. Would you like that, Dean?”

            Dean’s lungs tighten and his head feels like it’s going to float away. The pain in his still lightly bleeding leg pangs with insistence as he tenses up. This isn’t happening. He can’t take Cas.

            “Oh, you didn’t think I knew that your little friend visited? I saw his fucking fancy-ass car sitting on the side of the road the other day. You can’t keep secrets from me, Dean. They will never stay secrets for long. Now, which one do you pick?”

            Dean closes his eyes and presses his body up against Alastair’s front, tears threatening to spill from his eyes.

            “Now that’s more like it.”

* * *

 

            _I’m a fool. Such a damned fool,_ Castiel thinks as he clenches the steering wheel in his hands.

            He has some uncanny sense that Alastair cannot know he visited. The look of horror in Dean’s eyes when he heard that door…it was the stuff of nightmares. He knows that the man is dangerous, but to what extent? His brain urges him to call the police, to ask someone for help. He’s so close, so very close to dialing the numbers he’s never dialed before. He vows to call the number when he gets home.

            When he pulls up to his house and sees a familiar car in the driveway, all thoughts of policemen are pushed to the side.

            Lucifer is home.

            Lucifer, his unruly, cruel, and sadistic older brother is in his house. As he shakily opens his car door, he notes Michael’s car beside Lucifer’s. The warring sons are home at last.

            Childhood misery rushes at him from all sides; the winds brings tears shed and sleep lost, memories of screaming and cowering and fear. So much fear.

            As he walks up to the pristine mansion he hates, he feels like a child once more.

            He takes a deep breath, preparing himself for the onslaught of emotion and conflict awaiting him. As his hand touches the knob, headlights illuminate the door and he looks behind him.

            It’s Anna, and someone is with her.

            They’re laughing, and they don’t even notice he’s there. Anna is leaning over onto the stranger’s lap, staring up at the mystery person with her doe eyes. Their faces start to move closer, and Castiel averts his eyes. When he hears the car door open again, he looks back up to see the driver of the black, ancient beast of a vehicle. He’s tall, almost hitting the roof of the car. He has shaggy brown hair, gentle eyes and a faint smile as he watches Anna adoringly. Cas watches as his mouth moves to say something he can’t hear.

            “Goodbye, Sam.” Anna calls out before she closes the door.

            Castiel’s brow furrows at the name, he could’ve sworn he had heard her mention it before, but where..?

            “Oh shit.” He’s torn out of his thoughts by Anna’s horrified cuss, and he looks over to her pale face.

            “C’mon.” He intones gruffly.

            They open the door together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many things happened in this chapter, I hope I didn't overwhelm anyone. I tried to orchestrate all the plot points so that they weren't confusing.  
> So...Anna's mystery man is Sam. Sammy's back in town, guys! ;)  
> Thank you all for reading!! You all are so adorable, for real! Everytime I get a comment on one of my stories it's like Christmas morning!! Ugh, I wish I could hug all of you!  
> -SJ xx
> 
> Question of the Day (this is horribly random and irrelevant to the story, but whatever): Favorite Musician/Band? I'm curious and I want to know more about you guys. I love the band Arctic Monkeys, and for those of you who don't know them, look them up now!! :) Okay, bye!


	18. The Sons

            The Novak house is aflame with fury.

            In the stagnant, too sterile living room, are Michael and Lucifer. Lucifer is sitting in an armchair, while Michael paces opposite of him. One on each side of the room, Lucifer in black and Michael in white. The symbolism is not lost on Castiel. Lucifer, the dark child of the night, born out of wedlock, the bastard Novak. Michael, the eldest, the brightest, the most promising.

            As the two youngest Novaks hover outside the tension filled living room, Castiel looks over to Anna. Her face is twisted in fear and trepidation, her eyebrows furrowed and her lips pursed. Michael and Lucifer don’t even acknowledge their presence.

            Anna was just two years old when Lucifer left, but she grew up in the aftermath. Castiel remembers bits and pieces of Lucifer; his loud mouth and devious smile standing out amongst various screaming matches. Gabriel was the one caught in the middle. Old enough to remember, but too young to help. When Lucifer would show up at 3 in the morning, drunk and raving about sex or fights or parties, Gabriel would sneak into Castiel’s room, towing little Anna along with him, and they would weather the night together.

            Castiel can remember vividly the one time Gabriel got involved in a fight. He was only twelve, yet his radical and brave personality shown through even at the tender age. Michael and Lucifer were screaming about church service; Lucifer was required to attend, and he didn’t want to. Their father was God knows where, doing God knows what. He only commanded and expected, a constant presence that could be felt but not seen. This fight was right before Cas had to go to kindergarten, and he had been up all night with the screaming. He remembers Gabriel bursting out,

            “Stop!” As the brothers were shoving and yelling in the kitchen that morning.

            Gabe had tried to separate the two, but only ended up with a split lip and tears streaming down his face. Four years later, Gabriel would drop out of high school.

            “Gabriel is dead, Lucifer. They are suspecting you. Do you know what his would do to the family name? You’re the bastard child that abandoned our family, and now you’re a suspected murderer!”

            “Oh, Michael. You still have that stick up your ass, I see. Shit, that must be getting quite uncomfortable for you.”

            “Lucifer…” Michael growls out, grinding his teeth and fuming.

            “Mikey…” Lucifer mocks.

            Castiel is so infinitely exhausted with his family’s drama. He has no desire to get involved in this. He tugs on Anna’s sleeve, gesturing silently for her to leave. She looks up at him, her doe eyes frightened and angered. They turn their backs and start to edge away. Just as they both make it out of the viewpoints of Lucifer and Michael, a devilish voice stops them in their tracks.

            “Castiel and Anael. It’s been a while.”

            The blood from Cas’s face pools at his feet.

* * *

 

            This time, when the constant jostling of his bleeding sets pain burning through him, he thinks of Sammy.

            He tries to remember his precious younger brother, and all he can conjure up is a pudgy face and a waddling gait. He remembers high pitched giggles and adorable smiles. It breaks his heart (what’s left of it anyway) to think of Sammy all grown up, never knowing him or growing up with him.

            He wasn’t there when Sam learned how to read. He wasn’t there for his first day of school. He wasn’t there when he took his first bike ride. He wasn’t there to beat up the kids who made fun of him on the playground. His brother doesn’t remember him—how could he? Dean is just the ghost of a family past, the uncomfortable memory of the eldest son, a memory left behind in that blue room of his. He wonders if Sammy got his room once they realized he was never coming back.

            As Alastair does something to his backside that is foreign and horrifyingly new, tears drip down his face.

            He wasn’t there to protect Sammy from the dangers of the world. He wasn’t there to save him from the bad guys.

            As his vision starts to turn black around the edges, and his consciousness starts to float above him in a cloud of pain and sorrow, torrents of tears gush down his face in an unstoppable river.

            He misses his little brother.

            He won’t ever be there to protect him. Dean is going to die in here.

            “So good for me, Dean. So pretty and smart. You’re liking this aren’t you?” Dean closes his eyes as he nods, dishonesty seeping from his every pore. Alastair doesn’t seem to sense the deceit.   

            He hopes his brother never has to look at his corpse—if they ever find it. Maybe Castiel and Sam will meet. Maybe his death with finally provide answers to Castiel’s questions. Maybe they will love each other when Dean is no longer around to love them both.

            When Alastair moans and collapses, his sweaty body draped over Dean’s back, when he whispers,

            “You know you love it.” Dean can only nod.

            He doesn’t trust his mouth anymore.

            Later that night, he lies in the basement and addresses his wound. It makes him want to vomit. He almost does. The skin around the cut is bloated and purple. It is still seeping some blood, and Dean rips a piece of fabric out of his shirt and holds it to the wound. Cas said he needed to apply pressure, didn’t he? The conversations all blur together for Dean. Blood loss, dehydration and sorrow all combine to make him somewhat delirious.

            He misses his mom, who used to put Band-Aids on his scrapes when he fell and skinned his knee. He misses his Dad, telling him war stories and hugging him before he was deployed. He misses Sammy’s childish tantrums and giggles. He misses his best friend Benny, who he still remembers after all of the years. He misses his Uncle Bobby, talking to him about cars and girls as he worked on Dad’s Impala. He misses Cas, too, his lonely angel who talked to him when no one else would.

            As he drifts off into a numbing sleep, he knows he’ll never be able to see them ever again. For the first time in a while, he feels a fiery desire to fight fate once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! A chapter for you guys! First off, I'd like to thank you for responding to my question last time. I love getting to know you guys, and it actually blows my mind when I think about all you living, breathing humans who actually took time out of your lives to read my story and to comment! You all have impeccable tastes ;) Secondly, you guys, this story has 350 kudos and 6,000+ hits! THIS IS INSANE! I am in shock, honestly. Lately, I have been reading other fanfictions (bad idea when you are writing your own story--I definitely don't recommend it to any fellow authors out there) and I start to doubt my writing capabilities. Then, I get an email saying you guys commented or left kudos, and I start to think, hey, maybe I'm actually sort of a good writer. You all--can I call you my fans, or is that too cocky?--are beautiful human beings and I love every single one of you. Thank you for all the support, lovelies. 
> 
> -SJ xx
> 
> Question of the Day: Would you ever read an original work of fiction written by me? :)


	19. The Bedroom

            “How nice of you to drop by!”

            Castiel’s body turns to ice, his heart stilling and becoming a useless, bloody organ, and his muscles clenching in terror. He and Anna turn around simultaneously deciding to face their older brothers head on.

            “Lucifer.” Castiel greets gruffly, Anna solemn and steadfast at his side.

            “Look at this happy little family reunion. Who are we missing here? Oh yes, poor Gabriel. Such a shame he had to leave us, isn’t it?” He mocks with a lethal sneer, twirling a picture of Gabriel in his hands. Cas wants to hiss at the taunting way he handles the frame.

            Cas can remember when the picture was taken. Gabe was a sullen 15, hair disheveled, mustache sprouting, and mischievous grin smeared across his pubescent face. The picture had been snapped on a day Cas can vividly recall. It was a day in which his father was still present, Lucifer and Michael both neutral (as neutral as they could be), and Castiel’s innocence was still somewhat intact.

            They had gone to Aunt Esther’s cottage in Maine—it was the only time the whole Novak family was tranquil enough for travel. In the years prior, everyone was still reeling from the sudden death of Adriel Milton-Novak, the beloved mother of the Novak children and wife of world renowned Tobias Novak. Later, the two oldest brothers would bring even more turmoil to the family name.

            In the picture, Gabriel sits on a bench, smirking at the camera with that infamous mouth of his. He had the same golden eyes and trouble-making smile. As Cas looks at the picture, the mental wall holding back the grief over the death of his brother opens like a floodgate. He struggles to repair the dam as he seethes at Lucifer.

            “Castiel and Anael, please, leave us.” Michael commands, fiery and stern as he gestures to the exit.

            “No, no. I want them to hear this.” Lucifer insists, crossing his legs and smiling eerily at Anna. It disturbs Cas, so he positions himself in front of her. Lucifer had always disturbed him, from the early days with his fascination with screaming music and piercings and black clothing. Lucifer was a twisted being, and he truly lived up to his namesake. Cas can’t remember exactly when he fell from grace. Perhaps it was when Michael first caught him with heroine the first time. Cas honestly cannot remember a time when Lucifer wasn’t disobeying or questioning authority. He wishes he had some memory of Lucifer being good—there just weren’t any.

            “I did not kill our beloved Gabe. Although I wish I would’ve, the annoying son of a bitch.” Lucifer says with a cackle.

            “Everyone suspects you, Lucifer. There is a reason for that.”

            “Just because I spent some time in jail, doesn’t mean I’d kill my own brother! I’m insulted!” Lucifer plays, jokingly covering his mouth with his hands.

            “I know what you are capable of, brother. Do not jest.” Michael growls, glaring at his brother with eyes of steel.

            “Michael, Michael, Michael. What do you take me for?” Lucifer replies with an amused smile. How the subject of the death of his brother could be amusing, Castiel did not know.

            “A lying, devious heathen.” Michael deadpans.

            “Well, you aren’t wrong.”

* * *

 

            “Such a pretty boy, Dean. So pretty.” Alastair grunts as he thrusts into Dean.

            He had awoken that morning to torment from Alastair, and this particular session is lasting for quite some time. He really can’t decide what is worse: the twisted sexual practices or the torturous bloodletting Alastair loves. Both agonize his brain and his body, so there really isn’t a lesser evil.

 His leg is healing up rather nicely, although it still hurts like hell every time Alastair jostles it.

            Dean is waiting for the metaphorical shoe to drop. He expected the worst beating of his life when Alastair caught him upstairs, red handed. Alastair has threatened him with death many times, but never followed through. This time, Dean has serviced him better than ever before, although he knows it isn’t enough. There is always a catch. Dean wonders if he’ll actually wind up dead this time.

            Today quickly becomes different when out of the blue, Alastair picks him up in his arms and carries him up the steps. Dean doesn’t try to move, his leg has crippled him to the point where he wouldn’t get more than five feet before Alastair caught him again. As Alastair turns the corner, Dean looks out into the living room and remembers his conversation with Cas and smiles.

He can’t give up. He has Cas.

His gaze snags on something achingly familiar as he passes the couch. It’s tan and dirty and every bit not Dean’s, and that’s what makes it so dangerous. His heart is in his throat as Alastair goes down the hallway to what he assumes is probably his bedroom. Dean has not seen the bedroom before.

            As the old, mahogany door opens, Dean’s eyes try to absorb the new scenery as well as the fact that Cas has forgotten his trench coat.

            The wall is shrouded in peeling yellow wallpaper, and the only window is not boarded up—making it the single window in the house with an unobstructed view of the outside world. Alastair strolls over to it, Dean still in his arms, and closes the blinds, blanketing the room in darkness.

            He roughly drops Dean onto the dirty burgundy bed spread. Dean hears a _zip zip zip_ and he closes his eyes. He has to think about how he can get the trench coat out of Alastair’s reach, and this is the perfect time to do it.

            “So good for me, Dean. I love your body so much. So damn hot, oh Christ.”

            He has to hide the trench coat. It is his only hope. But, where?

            Can he sneak upstairs later on when he’s sleeping and somehow hide it outside for Cas later? Can he smuggle it downstairs and hide it somewhere? Can he exhaust Alastair to the point of a dead-like sleep so he can put it somewhere safe? Does he even care anymore? So many possibilities flash through his mind, and oh my god his leg hurts and someone help he can’t do this anymore.

            Everything hurts, and he just wants to stop existing. It’s been too long. Dean Winchester is lost to the winds of time; a missing child poster and an empty blue room his only legacy. He is Alastair’s “pretty boy” now, nothing more. Cas will move on, and Sammy doesn’t even know who to miss. His parents think he’s dead.

            As Dean Winchester lies on a bedspread slowly turning a darker maroon and gives up, Castiel Novak stands in an empty house with empty people and chooses to fight.

            And that is what makes all of the difference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all are simply adorable! Thank you to responding to my question last time; I am a very fickle writer and have some plot lines I might eventually put to paper. I was just mainly curious, but the fact that some of you would actually read more of my work is mind blowing.
> 
> On another note: HOLY HELL THIS STORY IS 3 AWAY FROM 400 KUDOS
> 
> Is this real life????????
> 
> Oh my Cas, my fans are amazing ;)  
> Read, comment and kudo!!
> 
> Lots of Love,  
> SJ xx


	20. The Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam Winchester has been living in the aftermath of Dean's kidnapping all of his life. This is his story.

            Growing up as an only child was hard.

            The Winchester house always felt achingly empty with no big brother across the hall. His parents had preserved Dean’s room with painstaking detail; nothing was moved, as if one day Dean might come back and need his teddy bear and toy trucks once more. He can barely remember the early years, and what he does remember is dark and warped.

            Whenever he thinks of the immediate aftermath of Dean’s kidnapping, he recalls the one time he found his mother crying in her missing baby’s room. His father was gone that night, out drinking most likely, and he had gotten up in the middle of the night with a nightmare. He guesses that he was about two or three during this time, and it amazes him that this memory remains engraved in his brain even after all these years.

            He had found Mary, his poor, broken mother, kneeling next to Dean’s bed, her face buried in the sheets.

            “My baby, my sweet little Dean. Mommy loves you so much.” He can still hear her broken sobs, her gut-wrenching agony staining his childhood with tears.

            “Mommy?” He had called out from the doorway of the mausoleum that was now known as his brother’s room. 

            “Oh, Sammy, honey. Mommy is okay, she just misses Dean right now. Go back to bed, darling.” She had somehow managed to gasp out. Mary Winchester is the strongest, most selfless person Sam has ever had the honor of knowing.

            He misses her with every atom in his being.

            He misses his Dad, too; John Winchester and his tough love and big laugh.

            He misses Dean. He misses the brother he lost to the unknown.

            Dean is the boy with the blue room, the “your brother is the one who got taken!”, the cherub face that was once plastered across news programs and buildings everywhere. Dean is still five years old in his mind, even though Sam is now 21 and Dean would be four years his elder. His birthday is January 24th, and every year on that day, he tries to imagine him. No matter how hard he tries, his big brother’s image remains a snapshot with the heading: MISSING CHILD.

            It took years for the Winchester family to find some semblance of normality, and even when they did find it, it was always hard to maintain. There was always John’s drinking binges and Mary’s jagged crying nights. There would always be that stagnant, horrid feel in the air of that house in Lawrence, and that damned blue room would remain preserved to the finest point until that house turned to dust.

            The house would stay the same even up to the day Sam Winchester left it for good.

            Ever since he was old enough to comprehend what happened to his brother, he had harbored a secret wish for vengeance. When he got to high school and sat through a lecture about, “What do you want to do when you grow up?” he knew how to extract his revenge without breaking the law—he would enforce it.

            Law school was daunting, but he exceled, fueled by a fiery need to avenge his brother.

            He loved living on his own in California. The sky was open, big, and free of anything familiar, and it soothed Sam. For once, he wasn’t the sole aspect of his family’s militant attention, and it felt wonderful. He had grown up sheltered, protected, and fretted over. He was the baby of the family—his parents’ second chance. At Stanford, he could be free.

            Once he left Lawrence, he knew he didn’t want to go back, yet somehow, he had once again found himself in that familiar driveway staring up at a certain window. He found dark humor in the fact that a girl drove him back to the wretched town of Lawrence once more.

He had settled into life at Stanford all on his own, knowing no one and inexperienced in the art of living by himself. He remembered the first time he tried to do his own laundry and ended up setting the dryer on fire.

            Then, he found Jess.

            He can vividly recall the first time he saw her, smiling and laughing as she sat in the library, covering up her mouth with her hands when she was shushed by a librarian. She was so beautiful, and Sam was entranced. She had seen him staring at her like a pubescent boy and then the rest was history.

            They had been so intensely in love, and they had fallen so fast and hard. The next thing Sam knew, he was the buyer of a diamond wedding ring from Kay’s Jewelers.

            Like most things in the grueling 21 years of Sam’s life, their love story ended before it could really begin. Nothing in Sam Winchester’s life lasts for very long.

            It was a fire. A goddamn house fire in which, “the source of the fire is unknown”, and “we are so sorry, Mr. Winchester”.  Sam can’t remember a time where he cried harder. He grieved and mourned in his dorm, sullen and agonized. He lost all his friends and started failing all of his classes.

            It had been months before he recognized that Jessica’s death had broken everything in him that was left to be broken. He needed to be back home—even if that meant facing Bobby and Dad and….well, he wasn’t looking forward to it.

            Stubborn as always, he drives the 1,836 miles to Lawrence from Palo Alto in his father’s gifted Impala that would have been Dean’s, but in default had been given to Sam in hopes of “paternal bonding”. He hates the thing—it is damn archaic. Sometimes Sam feels as if Dean would have taken better care of it.

            He makes it to Lawrence in a day, his adrenaline staving off sleep. His first stop is Uncle Bobby’s house.

            There are no questions asked. Bobby Singer greets Sam with open arms and a gruff,

            “I’ve missed you, boy.” And suddenly Sam is the most okay he has been in months. He spends the night on Bobby’s old sofa, and wakes up to the smell of whiskey and pancakes. It is nice to be home.

* * *

 

            He knew that this was going to happen. He knew they were still in town—they aren’t ones to move around. He isn’t prepared for this, seeing her. Her fiery crimson locks and ivory skin, her rosebud lips and perfect curves. Her beautiful smile. Sam always fell for their smiles.

            “Sam.” She gasps out. A single syllable that sounds like a sob in the isle of Nelson’s Grocery.

            “Anna.” He whispers solemnly, trying to keep his eyes anywhere but her face.

            “I, I thought you…I thought you moved?” Sam can hear the surprise and the pain hidden in her dulcet tone.

            “I came back.” He returns, shifting his feet awkwardly and staring somewhere to her right.

            “Oh. Well, it was nice seeing you.” She chokes out, and turns to walk away.

            Something in Sam doesn’t want her to go. He lets her. He has already broken too many people.  Seeing Anna again is similar to having salt poured on a gaping wound. It stings.

            When he returns to Singer’s Salvage Yard, he still hasn’t shaken off the encounter. Later, when he lies in the familiar bed he had often laid in as a child, he still thinks of her.

            He dreams of her smile and wakes up hurting. Think of Jess. Jess, Jess, Jess.

            It lasts for days. Then, one bleary morning when Bobby leaves him in the house with a “Why don’t you go home today, Sam,” he shakily opens his phone and scrolls to “Anna” in his contact list. Sam had been too sentimental to delete her number.

            She picks up after four rings.

            “Anna?" Which is how he ends up at a coffee shop on Main Street sipping a Chai Tea Latte and spilling his guts out to his ex-girlfriend.

            “You need to go home, Sam.” She says when he has finished his miserable monologue, marking the second time today that one of his close friends has ordered him home.

            He wants to say, “I know!”, but instead he whispers, “Bye Anna. Thank you.” And then he is alone once more.

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all: I AM SO SORRY! I haven't updated in about a week--Egads!! It was a really stressful week full of sickness and packing, but now I'm on vacation and have plenty of time to write. 
> 
> Okay, so, after many people suggested a chapter from Sammy's POV, I just had to do it. I absolutely adore it when you guys give me ideas!! So, thank you to the many people who helped me create this chapter. I can honestly say it had not occurred to me to do a Sam chapter, and I loved the idea. So, here you go. I hope I didn't disappoint.
> 
> Love you all! xx
> 
> -SJ 
> 
> Question of the Day: Would you read another chapter in Sam's point of view?


	21. The Bus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean remembers, and Cas is on a bus.

            The ceiling in the basement is made of concrete, and thin, spidery cracks weave through the cement. There are indistinguishable stains also on the ceiling, and Dean briefly wonders how stains got on the _ceiling._ His hazy gaze drifts down from the mottled ceiling to address his favorite wall of colors. He remembers begging for days for something to do, pleading with his little boy voice,

            “Please, Daddy, I’m so bored.”

            Yes, Alastair had gone through that phase. The first time he had commanded it, Dean had outright refused.

            _“You’re gonna call me Daddy, now, baby.” Alastair croons into his little ears months--weeks, years? It all blends together—after he had ripped him from his home, his family, his life. Dean is absolutely horrified with the suggestion. He has one Daddy, and his name is John Winchester, and he loves Dean and would never, ever, hurt him like this. He shakes his little head, his brown hair bouncing with the motion._

_“I didn’t think that was a question. You’re going to call me whatever the hell I want you to call me, you fucking imbecile. You think your real Daddy actually gives a shit about you? Who’s the one who takes care of you, hmm? ”_

_His scalp burns as Alastair grabs his hair and pulls._

_“Y-you.” Dean squeaks, gulping as he feels fear trickle to the bottom of his belly. Alastair has reminded him of his parents, and it makes something in his throat tighten and it feels like the time he got lost in the grocery store and Mrs. Philips found him huddling in the corner in between the candy and the toilet paper._

_This time, there isn’t a Mrs. Philips. This time, his mom won’t come running to him and pick him up in her arms. This time, there isn’t a, “Dean, never do that to Mommy again,” mumbled into his ear._

_“Does your old Daddy take care of you anymore?”_

_Dean shakes his head, still stuck in the grocery store with no one to find him._

_“Good. Now what’s my name?”_

_“Daddy.”_

            It had only lasted for a short time— _thank God_ —and then it became, “Sir”.

            Sometimes Dean wonders why such horrible memories stick in his brain like glue when he has to struggle to remember what his Mom’s voice sounds like.

            One day, when he was all alone with his hands cuffed to the wall behind him (a practice in which Alastair had abandoned once he had tortured Dean into submission) he had gotten so frustrated that he couldn’t remember what his Mom sounded like, he couldn’t remember, he couldn’t remember! Then, he was crying powerful sobs that echoed in the small room and made his throat hurt. He didn’t like crying. Alastair didn’t like it either.

            When he had heard Alastair’s clunky loud footsteps a few minutes later, he wet himself out of terror.

            Alastair didn’t help him like his Mommy did. He had gained two new bruises and lost his first tooth from that incident.

            Dean distances himself from the memory and moves to another quickly, shuddering with an icy emotion he just can’t quite put a name to.

            _It’s May 2 nd, 1983 in this one, and Becky from across the street is playing with his action figures on the living room floor with him. Mom and Dad had gone to the hospital that morning so they could get Sammy out of Mommy’s tummy, and Dean is **so excited.** _

_He is going to be a big brother. He is going to tell his brother about how pretty Lisa Braeden is in his class, and how cool Star Wars is. He’s going to teach him how to play baseball, and tell him how to steal cookies from the jar on the counter.  Sam is going to be Dean’s best friend, he knows it. He can’t stop bouncing up and down as he stares at the window while Becky makes pew pew noises as her Storm trooper knocks over his Luke Skywalker._

_“When are they going to be back?” Dean whines, knocking over all the figurines and plopping down on the floor, lip jutting out as he pouts._

_“Soon, Dean. Now c’mon, don’t you want to defeat Darth Vader?”_

_They come back later that night, and Dean squeals as he runs into his Dad’s arms when they open the door. Dad points to a white bundle Mom his holding, and Dean stares in awe at the little face peeping out of it._

_“This is your little brother, Dean. Our Sammy.” He peers a little closer, wiggling out of his Dad’s arms to get a closer look._

_“He’s all pink and wrinkly!” Dean trills, twitching his nose in displeasure at Sam’s alien face._

_“That’s just because he’s little, Dean. He won’t be like that forever.” Mom says while smiling brightly._

_“Do you want to hold him?” Dean giggles and nods his head, and Mom’s smile gets wider as Dad sets him down on the couch. He holds out his arms, and Dad places his little body in his arms, and Dean feels so funny as he looks down at Sam’s tiny face._

_“You’re going to protect your brother, aren’t you, Dean?” His Dad looks at him with that soldier face that he gets when he talks about the Marines, and Mary says, “John,” exasperatedly. Dean wags his head in a ‘yes’ and smiles down at Sammy. When he looks at him, he gets a tingly warm feeling in his tummy and Dean thinks it’s called love._

_“I love you, Sammy.” Dean whispers, and then bends down to press his lips to Sammy’s head._

            He still loves Sammy, even as he sits in the basement of a house he can’t escape with a bleeding leg and a fading will to live. He wonders if Sam loves him too. Dean is sad because he had held on all these years, through the thrusts and tears and screams, to protect Sam, and now he can’t anymore.

            _I’m so sorry, Sammy. It’s too hard._ He really tried. He tried with all he had to give and now he has nothing left. He’s just exhausted. He’s so tired, and he wants to crawl into Mom and Dad’s bed and press his cold toes to Mom’s legs and snuggle into her side like he used to do after a nightmare.

            He is just so tired.

* * *

 

            It is 2 o’clock in the morning and Castiel Novak is on a bus.

            He’s never used public transportation before, and he doesn’t particularly like it. He had thrown a $100 bill at the driver when he asked for a bus pass, and that seemed to shut him up good. He has a throbbing headache, and he thinks about how he ended up in a dingy bus that smells like burritos and body odor.

            After Lucifer had finished taunting the two youngest Novak siblings, he had shifted his attention to Michael and World War III had occurred right in the once pristine living room. Needless to say, it wasn’t pristine anymore. He wonders if his Dad will want the piano replaced. The only one who used to play it was his Mother, and she was long gone. He guesses Father was too nostalgic to have it removed.

            The last Cas knew, Michael had a split lip and a perhaps dislocated shoulder, and Lucifer had a broken arm and a gash running down his forehead. Castiel ended up with a black eye and a distraught sister, who had flung herself up the stairs and shut herself in her room.

            The two brothers had continued the brawl, and once Anna fled, Cas did the same. He burst out of the door, and listed his escape options. He looked at his Mercedes with disgust. He absolutely hated it. In an act of defiance, he picked option B: The Bus. He walked out to the nearest bus stop in his suit, and he really didn’t care if he looked out of place.

            The windows are foggy, and the stagnant air in the bus not only reeks, but chills his bones as well. He feels drunk; the adrenaline of the fight has now drained from his system and has left him tired and hungry. The condensation on the bus window reminds Cas of when he was little and used to draw pictures on the windows during the rides to school when he was just a child.

            He rests his head on window pane and closes his eyes. He’s only going to rest his eyes….

            He wakes up a little while later when the obese bus driver growls at him,

            “End of the line.”

            He is herded out of the smelly bus, and steps out into the road. He’s standing right in front of the library, and Dean’s house is across the street.

            He wants to laugh at the irony. He also wants to walk up to the familiar door and bang on it until Dean comes to the door, trench coat in hand. He wants to sleep beside Dean; he wants to curl up next to him and fall asleep in his arms, and where the hell did that thought come from?

            He does none of the things he wants, and instead pulls out his cell phone and calls his cousin Balthazar.

            “Can you come pick me up?” He breathes into the receiver when his cousin picks up. He can hear the rustle of what he assumes is bed sheets and then Balthazar’s gruff voice is saying,

            “Sure thing, Cassie. Where are you?” Relief floods through his system. He wouldn’t end up sleeping on a park bench after all.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the wait, lovelies. Here ya go!
> 
> My life has been a mess lately, and I've hardly had anytime for this story! I'm making time though--don't worry.
> 
> This chapter was really fun to write, and I hope you enjoyed it. 
> 
> Read, comment, and kudo! :) 
> 
> -SJ xx
> 
> P.S. You are all adorable! ;)


	22. The Cousin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to personally thank singreader for her amazing advice that helped me get this chapter out for you all.
> 
> Lets all send her some love, yeah?
> 
> Thanks so much Jennifer!!

            Castiel is beginning to remember why he never stays at Balthazar’s place.

            He walks through the ornate French doors to the living room, and is met with a lacy woman’s bra flung over the side of the couch. There are other various clothing items strung about the room, and Cas looks at his cousin incredulously, raising his eyebrow.

            “What can I say? You caught me at a bad time!” he shrugs his shoulders and walks over to the couch, “I’m partially pissed at you for interrupting my fun, but I’m also quite pleased to see you again, Castiel. It’s been ages.”

            Cas bows his head as heat flushes through his cheeks. He knows he should have been more responsible and visited more often; after all, Balthazar did only live blocks from the library. He had become so absorbed with college and Gabriel and working and Dean that he had forgotten to keep in touch.

            _Dean_.

            “I can’t say I’m not curious about the circumstances. I mean, you did call me at 3 o’clock in the morning to come pick you up at a shady bus stop; a man’s going to have questions.”

            Balthazar talks too much, and Cas doesn’t talk enough. They make an unlikely pair, Castiel thinks.

            “Balthazar. I understand that you have questions, but it is indeed 3:00 and I’m exhausted. Can we please address your queries in the morning?” He rubs his eyes while speaking, trying futilely to shake off the encroaching tendrils of sleep.

            “Yes, yes of course. I have a guestroom for you up the stairs.” Balthazar gestures for him to follow him up the steps.

            Once they reach the top, he is led down a long hallway to a green room at the end.

            “Thank you, Balthazar. I really mean it.” Cas says once he has appraised the room and been given a pair of flannel pajamas that he finds quite ludicrous.

            “No problem, Cassie. Any time.” And then he is left alone in the green room with a black eye and a blue heart.

* * *

 

            Castiel dreams again that night.

            This time it is not of death, sadness or warring brothers. Oh no, this dream is a different kind of nightmare all together.

            He’s in a bed, and he knows there is someone beside him. They’re moving together, Cas and this mystery person. Moving and grinding in the throes of fiery desire with a lust unparalleled to anything Castiel has ever experienced before. All he sees are blurry images of feet tangled in blankets, hands clutching the bed frame. All he hears are disembodied moans and his name being repeated over and over again. Then his dream-eyes focus in on something, and it takes him seconds to recognize what he’s seeing. He drinks in the tan speckles dotting pale skin, the constellations on an achingly familiar face.

            It’s Dean. He’s dreaming about Dean; he’s dreaming about him naked, firm yet soft, malleable and warm and so perfect underneath his hands. This is so wrong, so, so wrong, and the last time he’s had one of these dreams was in 10th grade.

            “Cas, Cas, Cas.” Groaning so saccharine sweet, Dean is. It’s addicting and melodious and he wants to hear Dean say his name like this until he takes his last breaths; he wants to feel Dean like this, complete and whole and warm for the rest of his existence, he wants, he wants.

            He can’t have.

            He wakes up from the dream at noon with a wet spot on his nightclothes, and an insatiable need that he knows will only be quenched by a certain freckled man who he happens to be freakishly obsessed with.

            He isn’t normal. This—whatever it is—isn’t healthy, and Cas knows it. Dreaming about someone he’s only just met in such an inappropriate manner, it’s sick.

            Castiel is sick. His obsession, his desire, his absolute, primal need--it’s not normal. Everyone in his immediate family would be disgusted with him, but he doesn’t think Balthazar will be as judgmental. He really has nothing to lose. He rips the stifling, too posh duvet off of him and addresses his situation.

            Later, when he has successfully cleaned himself up, he stumbles down the stairs to find his mischievous nymph of a relative.

            “Balthazar!” He calls out into the empty colossal living room, his tired eyes raking over the room in search of his cousin.

            After he receives no answer, he walks into the kitchen to find a note on the counter.

_Had business to attend to—will be back at 7._

_There’s food in the fridge if you want. I left the keys for the Mustang on the counter if you want to take it out somewhere._

_Please stay, Cassie. I’ve missed you._

_-B_

            His lips tilt up in a grin as he rereads the note. He too has missed his renegade cousin. They had once been like brothers.

            He looks at the keys on the counter and decides to drive back to his house to retrieve a few of his possessions to tide him over until Michael and Lucifer have cooled down.

            Balthazar’s Mustang is a grand affair, a bright red conspicuous thing that is worse than his Mercedes. He groans as he plops down in the driver’s seat and turns on the engine. It revs to life with a quiet purr. He knows most boys are supposed to like sports cars. Castiel isn’t like most boys.

            “Wow, his name even sounds gay.”

            “He walks like a faggot!”

            “Get away from me, you homo.”

            He had known since he was little that he wasn’t like most boys. Others had noticed as well.

                                                                              

* * *

 

            _He’s running off the bus and down the street, paper in his hand and a 100 watt smile gracing his little face._

_He races to the door and flings it open, yelling,_

_“Mom! Mom! Look!”_

_Mary stumbles into the kitchen, a basket of laundry in one arm and Sammy in the other._

_“Dean, what is it?” She gasps out, obviously frazzled._

_“Look!” He thrusts the paper into her hands and beams up at her. Her eyes scan the page and then crinkle with a smile._

_“Oh, Dean, baby! You did such a good job!” She sets the basket of laundry down and puts the gold starred spelling test on the fridge for everyone to see._

_Dean is positively radiating happiness, and Mary caresses his face lightly and bends down to his level._

_“I am so proud of you, honey.” He snuggles his face into her warm neck that always smells like flowers and sunshine._

_“Daddy is proud of you too. We love you so, so much.”_

_Dean thinks that this will always be enough; little Sammy, a proud Mom and Dad, his own room—everything is so perfect._

_He is taken from his family two days later._

He can’t think of the times before; he can’t think about his mom or his brother or his best friend. His throat gets tight and his eyes sting, and something inside his brain wants to snap and deplete his sanity. He can’t help thinking of them, even though it feels like someone is forcibly ripping his heart out from underneath his ribs, even though it feels like dreaming about dead people, even though it feels like he’s buried under six feet of dirt and slowly suffocating.

            He has to remember them. He has to remember them because he knows no one will remember him. He can’t forget them, because without them there is no reason to stay.

            Then, his brain pings him the image of a certain tan coat and his heart is in his throat and his stomach at his feet.

            After Alastair had defiled him until his libido was satisfied, he had cleaned his leg wound roughly and sent him back down to the cellar with a slice of moldy bread and a cup of water that tasted like iron.

            He had seen that damn coat hanging over the ugly sofa as Alastair dragged him to the kitchen; he had sat inches away from the thing as Alastair bandaged his cut; he had been pushed against the coat as Alastair smothered him with his disgusting lips.

            Alastair hadn’t noticed the coat, which Dean can only thank passion for.

            Dean had been so close. So close to the fabric that still smelled like Cas; so close to grabbing the coat and throwing it out the window for Cas to find later.

            As he sits in the basement and thinks of that precious coat, he knows he needs to get it.

            If he gets punished, so be it. Alastair cannot find Cas. Dean would willingly impale himself before that happened. Alastair has been far too inebriated to follow Cas home. If Dean is being honest, he thinks that Alastair might have been too drunk to actually absorb that Dean has been fraternizing with another man inside his own house. When Alastair realizes this and he’s completely sober, well, Dean doesn’t think he’ll last much longer after that.

            The next thing Dean knows, he’s limping to the stairs and dragging himself up them step by agonizing step.

            _CasCasCasCas. It’s for Cas._ He thinks as pain explodes in his leg after every jostle.

            He finally makes it to the top of the stairway and creaks the door open. _It must be nighttime_ , Dean thinks as he registers the absence of sunlight streaming in from the sides of the obstructed windows. It is dark except for the moonlight that trickles in from the window on the back door, which is now bolted shut.

            He creeps over to the couch to find the coat still there, and something in his chest loosens as he finally feels it in his hands.

            He is holding it to his nose and breathing in the delicious scent of Cas when he hears the shuffling of feet down the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow. I cannot believe that this story has almost 30K words. I am seriously astounded. This is the longest thing I've ever written, and I cannot even fathom the positive response this is getting. You all are seriously the best. 
> 
> You know what would make me super happy? If any of my internet friends would make some art or a banner of sorts for this story. I have no artistic talents at all, and I would love it if I had some art to go with this story. Just wondering if anyone would be interested. :) 
> 
> That is all. :)
> 
> Read, Comment, and Kudo, lovelies.
> 
> I hope you all have a good day!  
> -SJ xx


	23. The Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alastair has a guest and Cas goes home.

            Dean Winchester stiffens as he breathes in the sandalwood aroma of his angel’s beloved coat.

            _Do something, you idiot! Move!_ His brain screams at his body, urging the muscles to contract so they can get him somewhere away from where he is now. He needs to get back downstairs; he needs to take the several steps to where the shag carpet ends and the grungy linoleum begins and get the hell back to where he belongs. He needs to get rid of the damned coat and he needs to do it fast.

            He moves to take the quick few steps to the staircase when he hears a giggle.

            It is so alien—so foreign, yet tinkling and wonderful and oh, he’s thinking about his mother again--

            “See you tomorrow, baby.” The high feminine voice squeals. Dean reverses his opinion on her voice. It’s too high pitched and nasal-y and automatically Dean dislikes her. He hears the distant footfalls in the hallway, and he dives under the couch in an impulsive reaction, gripping the coat tight to his chest.

            He’s shaking, downright trembling now—because someone is right there.

            “It’s too dark out here—I can’t see a thing!” The voice trills. A light flickers on and Dean hears a growl.

            The sudden fluorescence stuns his eyes, and he closes them for a split second involuntarily before focusing in on the shoes inches away from his tremulous form. They are bright red strappy things—and the spike on the bottom is as long as Dean’s finger. He doesn’t understand why anyone would want to wear such ridiculously pointy contraptions, but he doesn’t stop to ponder it further.

            “C’mere.” He hears that gravelly voice mutter, and he closes his eyes tight because he recognizes the nature of the tone he’s using. That tone means, “I’m gonna make you scream.” It means soreness and crying and everything Dean hates. It means Alastair wants to have some fun.

            Dean quivers harder, biting his lip so hard it bleeds. His knuckles are white as they clench the tan fabric of Castiel’s coat.

            He hears the distinct noise of lips on lips, and he squeezes his eyes shut tighter. Suddenly, the couch he is hiding beneath creaks and shifts, and then Dean knows they are right above him.

            The disgusting squelching noises drift down to Dean’s ears, and he thinks he might vomit. He is so confused, so very confused. Who is this girl? Did Alastair take her too?

            “I got to get home, Azazel will know something is up.”

            “He’ll know what’s up as soon as he sees these,” Alastair drifts off, and then there is another giggle.

            “You naughty boy.”

            Dean might honestly spew his insides all over the hideous carpet.

            The sofa creaks again, and Dean knows they are getting up because he can see their legs straighten.

            “Goodbye, Lilith.” He draws out the last syllable in her name like a snake hissing.

            “Goodbye, Alastair. It has been a pleasure doing business with you.” She pauses.

            “Tell Dean I can’t wait to meet him.” She giggles once more at the end, and then he hears the door close.

             “Whore.”

            How could this woman know about Dean? It had always been, “This is our little secret,” and, “If you tell anybody about our arrangement I will personally fillet you.” Why does this lady want to meet him? Why did she get to leave?

            The lights shut off and Dean is bathed in darkness. He waits till he hears the footsteps fade away and another door open, and then he slides out from underneath the couch, his bones feeling like they have been liquefied. Adrenaline pumps hard and fast through his veins and he takes deep breaths to try and calm himself down.

            He’s staring right at the door, escape calling to him in the form of his mother’s voice.

            “Come home, Dean.”

            He slowly walks over to the door, his hands trembling fast and his knees wobbling. His fingers close over the knob of the back door, and he is turning, turning, turning.

            The cool night breeze blows over his pale, chapped face and his body is singing with the joy of being outside. Every cell in his body wants to take off running, wants to flee like a bat out of hell and into the arms of his mother--but his mother is dead and Sammy isn’t, and it’s all because of him. He deserves this. He has to stay.

            He sniffs Cas’s coat one last time before he folds it up into a bundle and tucks it in a bush beside the door. He takes one more look at the stars, the beautiful hypnotizing stars, and then shuts the door.

            A single tear crawls down his cheek.

           

* * *

 

            The house is empty when Castiel returns to it. The garage is vacant spare for his father’s novelty collector’s cars. When he walks into the house, the atmosphere tingles from the maelstrom that occurred just a few hours prior.

            He slowly makes his way to the living room, assessing for any more damage that wasn’t there when he fled last night. The piano still remains a pathetic mess of black and white on the floor, and the grand picture of the four archangels that once adorned the mantle of the fireplace lays torn to ribbons on the floor.

            _How ironic_ , Castiel thinks ruefully. He strolls past the mess and up the stairs to his room, marveling at how they kept the house from turning to a pile of rubble.

            He collects his meager belongings from his bedroom, filling up a small duffel bag with clothing, toiletries and his laptop. Gabriel had once remarked on how sterile and unlived in Castiel’s room looked. Everything was perfectly in order, nowhere near the image of an average college student’s room. Castiel knows why he keeps his room as bland as he does. He doesn’t live in this bedroom, no not really. He lives in the stories he reads and in the lectures he breathes like oxygen. He lives with the wonderful people he meets every day, in their smiles and laughter. This place—it isn’t home. It is just a mere space for him to sleep at night, and nothing more.

            When he returns to Balthazar’s, he has five hours before his cousin comes back. He knows exactly how he’ll spend them.

            He opens a document on his computer once he’s settled into a posh recliner in the living room.

** Dean **

  *          Birthday: January 24th
  *          Younger Brother Sam
  *          Extremely thin and sickly looking
  *          No health insurance? (refusal to go to hospital for medical care when injured)
  *          Terrified look in eyes when mention of Alastair Grey
  *          Alastair has no relation to Dean
  *          Illiterate—very little to no education  
  *          Bruising all over body
  *          Flinches to touch



            He will find out what happened to that scared man across the library.

            “I’m coming, Dean.” He whispers in the quiet of the mansion.

            Castiel doesn’t remember the point where this became a rescue mission, but he knows it is. Dean needs to be saved, and Castiel is going to save him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, you guys!! Here is a shorter chapter--so sorry.
> 
> On a personal note, I'm really excited because I am getting a shih tzu/bichon mix puppy in two weeks and his name is....WINCHESTER! I just can't--he is literally so adorable! Sorry, I just had to mention that. 
> 
> Also, if any of you have art, edits, suggestions--anything at all regarding this story--that you would like to send to me, message me at primadonna-winchester.tumblr.com or email me at savannah_writes67@yahoo.com and I will take a look!! 
> 
> Thanks so much, lovelies! Have a good day!!  
> -SJ xx


	24. The Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something is stopping Castiel.

            He remembers the headlines as clearly as he can see them on his computer screen now.

            **_MURDERED BY ABUSIVE BOYFRIEND, TRIAL SET FOR THE 27 TH_**

            **_MISSING GIRL, 17, FOUND DEAD IN KANSAS RIVER_**

            _Dead_. Castiel was unfamiliar with the term back then. Death was the something that took his mother away when he was just a child. Death was all over the news—all over the world. Yet death had not yet touched Castiel Novak personally.

            Not until Darcy Wilson.

            There was something about her innocence that had nagged at him; something about the way she looked like a scared child even though she was a beautiful, intelligent woman. It was the same something that reminds him of Dean, and that shakes him to the core. What the hell is he doing?

            He should be at the police station right now, thrusting the list of ‘evidence’ he’s accumulated at the officers. He should be holding Dean in his arms and kissing his tears of relief away as they stand in front of that damned house. He should be the one to whisper, “It’s okay, my love. You’re safe now.”

            Something is stopping him.

            _“Michael?” A pubescent Castiel calls out to his older brother on a crisp spring afternoon, sweating in his trench coat and wringing his hands as he waits at the door of Michael’s room._

_“Come in.” The gruff voice commands, and he pushes the door open gingerly. When he sees Michael sitting crossly on his neatly made bed, Castiel is less sure of himself, and maybe he should just shut up—_

_“I knew. I knew and I could have told someone. I could have saved her.” He blurts out, the words pouring out of him in rushed torrents as he struggles to keep his composure._

_“Castiel. Slow down, brother. What are you saying?” Michael is staring at him with cold, grey eyes, and he looks just like what Castiel imagines his father to be like. He has to say it, he has to let somebody know because he is going to take this with him to the grave. Her death is on Castiel’s head, and nothing is going to make it better. Nothing can bring her back. He has convinced himself that maybe telling Michael will alleviate some of the ever-present guilt that weighs him down like a slave’s chains._

_“The girl on the news? Darcy? I knew. I knew she was,” he gulps and stares hard at the champagne carpet, “being hurt.”_

_Nothing. Michael says nothing for several seconds, and Castiel looks up and is terrified by what he sees. There is fire in Michael’s eyes—absolute fury._

_“Castiel.” Michael snaps, his obedient brother looming over him like a storm cloud. This is possibly the worst idea Castiel has ever had. He bows his head in disgrace._

_“It is not our business to meddle in other people’s affairs. Her death,” he spits the word out blandly, “was inevitable—couldn’t be helped. You will not speak of this to anyone, am I clear?”_

_Castiel understands why Michael is named after an Archangel. He feels Heaven’s wrath behind the words as Michael hurls them at him, and they slither into his heart and take root there._

_“Yes, Michael. I apologize.” He whispers meekly, embarrassment and mortification lacing his voice. He stands to leave, and his blood feels hot as it flushes his body._

_“And Castiel? If I ever hear another of your meddlesome expeditions, you will not like the consequences.”_

_He nods as he closes the door._

            “Castiel?” His cousin’s yell rips him away from the traumatic childhood memory when the door opens and keys clink as he sets them down on the counter. He sounds hesitant, hope trickling through the questioning tone. Balthazar really does miss him.

            “Yes, Balthazar?” He looks up from Darcy Wilson’s face and shuts the laptop.  

            “Oh good, you stayed.” Balthazar’s face softens visibly, and Castiel’s muscles unclench as well. He stows Michael’s harsh words in the place in his brain marked, Childhood, and focuses back in on his wayward cousin.

            “Thank you for retrieving me yesterday. I am prepared to answer your questions now.”

            “Oh, Cassie, no need to be so formal.” He tosses his bizarre, new-fangled jacket on the side of the couch and promptly crashes in the space next to Cas.

            “Question number one: What the hell were you doing at a bus stop at ass o’clock in the morning?”

            Castiel rubs his eyes. He is not looking forward to reliving yesterday’s events.

            “Michael and Lucifer were fighting over Gabriel’s death, and I wanted to leave.” He says simply, staring at Balthazar emptily.

            “Why didn’t you just take your car then?”

            “I hate that atrocity.”

            “Not your brightest idea, Cassie.”

            “I know.”

            “Second Question: Where the hell have you been?” Castiel sighs. He was fearing this question—the one question he has no answer for.

            “College.” Balthazar raises his eyebrows but doesn’t press further, sensing there are details Cas does not feel comfortable indulging.

            “Third Question: Who the hell is Dean?”

            Alarm bells blare in his head and he swallows tightly, Adam’s apple bobbing as he struggles to come up with an answer.

            “Dean?” He decides to play it safe, probing to figure out how Balthazar knows about him.

            “Yes, Dean. The Dean you were moaning for last night when you creamed your pants like a 15 year old!”

            Cas says nothing, staring at Balthazar with horror as he processes what his cousin as just confided. It is horrid enough that he had the dream about Dean in the first place, but to have Balthazar know about it? It sickens him.

            “It’s okay, Cassie. It happens to the best of us. Last night, I came to check on you like the good relative I am, and I heard moaning. You weren’t exactly being discreet.”

            Blood flows to his cheeks as he flushes fiercely. He twists his hands together as he stares at the wine bottle on the coffee table, horrified.

            “I am sorry you had to witness my perversions, Balthazar.” He finally mumbles out. Laughter crackles through the room like lightning. He looks up at his cousin in surprise.

            “Perversions? Castiel, you still act like you’re in the 1800s, I swear.” Castiel frowns as he stares at the amused face of his relation.

            “Anyway,” Balthazar pauses to stand up and walk over to the kitchen. He opens a cupboard and pulls out a bottle of alcohol.

            “Who is Dean?”

            And the dam breaks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies! 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter--I am so sorry it is short. I know some of you are gonna kill me for not writing Dean's POV, but I just wanted to focus on Cas here. I hate Michael so much, oh my god. I think that definitely bled through in this chapter. ;) 
> 
> Everytime I read your comments I squeal because you all are literally so amazing! Please leave me more--they literally make me so happy. 
> 
> I've had numerous people ask for an Alastair POV chapter. Anybody want to second (well, more like third) that notion? I'm definitely willing to write it :) 
> 
> Follow my tumblr at primadonna-winchester.tumblr.com so I can see more of your lovely faces. I will follow you back :) 
> 
> Alrighty, that's it for now. Love you all!  
> -SJ xx


	25. The Question

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is going out, and Cas answers a question.

            One time, in the third grade, Cas had come home with a split lip. Naturally, Michael had demanded to know what had happened, and little Castiel had opened his mouth to reply, “I fell,” but instead found himself blurting, “They called me gay and pushed me off the playground.”

            Castiel is not very good at lying. He is not a master at repressing things, keeping secrets, deception—none of it. He is a horrible liar.

            So, when his cousin asks about Dean, Castiel is going to say, “Just, uh, a boy from college. He’s no one.”

            Except, he finds that he doesn’t even want to try and lie, because that lie would be so horrid, so inconceivable that the words will not get past his lips.

            Dean is not no one. He is everything.

            He starts with the library.

* * *

 

            “Up and at ‘em, Deanie boy.” He jolts up from his position on the cold, lifeless cement of the cellar and wearily wipes his blurry eyes.

            “Yes, sir.” He mumbles, struggling to sit up straight. Alastair is standing in the doorway, light from the level above bleeding through the door and silhouetting his gangly frame. The light in the basement is off, and Dean supports himself against the wall as he reaches to turn it on.

            Alastair steps over him, a boot veering off its path to kick him so he slumps against the wall.

            “I’ve got a surprise for you today, Dean.” Alastair pauses when the light flickers on, staring at Dean with a leering smile. Dean fights nausea at the vile grin.

            “You see, I have a lady friend. Her name is Lilith. She wants to meet my pet, and since you behaved somewhat nicely out in public, I am going to take you out to dinner so you two can meet. Doesn’t that sound nice, Dean? Hmm?”

            His pulse booms in his throat, and his stomach plummets. Lilith? The woman with the red shoes?

            “Dean!” Then, stone, cold, and clammy hands are pinning him to the wall behind him, bone hitting stone with a crack that reverberates through his skull. He can taste copper in his mouth.

            “Yes, sir. I am sorry, sir.”

            “That’s a good boy.” He closes his eyes tight, knowing what is coming.

            “How bout I warm you up for today, hmm?” And Dean submits to the cruelest kind of torture. He doesn’t want to remember the first time this happened—when Alastair first put things in places they shouldn’t be. The memory is there, hovering in the recesses of Dean’s mind just out of reach. He remembers confusion, pain, screaming, and blood, and that is all he cares to remember.

            There are a lot of things he doesn’t care to remember.

            When Alastair has had his fill, he drags a limping Dean up the steps and throws him on the couch not-so-gently.

            “You’re going to act like a human being today, Dean. We’re gonna clean you up real good, and you better charm Lilith’s panties right off. You hear me?”

            Dean nods firmly, jaw clenched as he stares straight ahead.

            “Let’s get you washed up.” Then, he is being shoved towards the hallway on his bum leg that still hurts like a son of a bitch. Alastair rips the skimpy shirt Dean had been wearing off his body when the water starts dripping from the faucet, and grabs him roughly and stuffs him into the tub. The water droplets hit him like bullets as he sits with his arms wrapped around his knees.

            Alastair backs away from the bathtub and grabs a bottle of something and then hands it to Dean. He recognizes the liquid as ‘shampoo’ from last time Alastair let him go out in public, and he takes the bottle hurriedly. He hates being this open, this vulnerable in the fluorescent lighting. He wants to take care of himself alone.

            Alastair smiles evilly, throws more bottles at him, and then shuts the door.

            Dean tries not to look at the wound on his leg that has reopened and is now slowly seeping blood and turning the water pink. He lathers his hair in suds, feeling the damaged strands brittle and thirsty for moisture underneath his fingertips. When the soap is washed out of his hair, he cleans and rinses himself.

            He can see his ribs and collarbones poking out from under his sallow bruised skin. Cas doesn’t look like him—Cas is firmer, fuller, strong and warm. Dean is his opposite--scrawny, breakable, and pale. Dean knows Cas is sickened by his body. Who wouldn’t be? He is disgusted. He knows normal people aren’t like him. Alastair hasn’t fed him enough since the day he was taken from his family. He tears his eyes away from his gaunt form.

            He trembles in the cool water, and he hoists himself over the plastic edge of the tub haphazardly. He flops down on the floor with a grunt, and grabs the ratty towel Alastair has left out for him. He dries himself softly, patting down the soft, tender flesh that is colored with splotches. He even looks broken; it’s like patches have been sewn on to him, to keep all his insides from spilling out.

            He really needs more distractions in his life. When he’s alone, he has time to dissect himself—to tear himself apart internally.

            Next, he dresses in the black pants, briefs and white dress shirt laid out for him, his body protesting through its entirety. He is surprised to see that the clothes fit him almost perfectly. He ruffles his short hair with his palms, then exits the bathroom, not once looking in the mirror.

            A malicious grin breaks out on Alastair’s face when he catches a glimpse of his captive. Dean just stares at his shoes.

            “Don’t you worry, Dean. Lilith will love you!”

* * *

 

            “Cassie, do you love him?” Balthazar asks the question Cas has been evading since he first met Dean, the question that haunts his waking and sleeping hours. The question he knows the answer to full well.

            “Yes. I love him.” He closes his eyes, imagining Dean saying the words back to him. It sets off a euphoria in his bones. He loves Dean. It doesn’t matter how many times they’ve met, what Michael thinks, what anyone thinks because he loves Dean and suddenly everything is sharper. He fell in love with his soul, with his broken smile and beautiful eyes. He fell in love with the security of having him safe in his arms. He fell in love with the stuttering of words that elementary students should know. Cas has been falling in love since the first day he saw Dean’s hunched figure sitting at that table in that library, and he knows it.

            Because Dean is different, a perfect kind of different that Castiel wouldn’t change for the world. There is something different in the way his delicate lips twitch in delight and tremble in sorrow. There is something different in the way his palms feel, weathered and smooth like a river stone. There is something different in the way he sits, brave but horribly scared. Dean is different and so is Castiel, and it’s perfect because they fit together like two different puzzle pieces. Castiel revels in the feeling.

            “It’s pretty obvious that he’s being hurt. This can’t be like last time with Darcy. Tell me you aren’t that stupid. Michael isn’t here to scare you off, alright? I could just punch that dick right in his robot face—“

            “Balthazar.” Castiel cuts him off with a hand raised up in a ‘stop’ gesture.

            “Alright, enough with the Michael hate. But, Castiel, you need to get him out of that house soon. Very soon. I don’t care if you call the police or break down the damn door yourself, you have to get him out of there.”

            He loves Dean.

            “I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the filler(ish?) chapter! I hope I'm not boring you guys, but this chapter had to happen to set up for the big stuff. The big climax is coming, my dears. You must be patient! 
> 
> Random blurb about my life: I tried to explain Destiel to my mother today, and it was actually hilarious. To sum up, she does not understand the concept of shipping. 
> 
> You can follow me at primadonna-winchester.tumblr.com and send me art, suggestions, photo edits, etc. I love it when you guys give me suggestions, so don't be shy! :) 
> 
> Alright, that is it for now, lovelies. I hope you have a good day! <3  
> Read, comment, and kudo! Spread the word! Can we get to 600 kudos by next chapter?  
> -SJ xx


	26. The Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean meets Lilith, and Cas tries to get help.

            After Alastair has presented Dean with a suit jacket, blue tie, and black dress shoes, he shoves him outside the house and keeps a firm hand on his back as he leads him to his dirty car.

            The ugly exterior is rusty and dented, and Dean knows his Uncle Bobby would love to fix it up. Alastair opens the back door for him and then pushes him inside, and once he is seated he stares at the seatbelt in frustration. He has never buckled his own seatbelt before. Things like this, that he knows he should be able to do, infuriate and sadden him simultaneously. His mother would’ve taught him how to fasten the strip of cloth.

            He toys with the offending seatbelt in his hands, and looks up front to Alastair to see how it is done. He is not surprised to see the belt hanging limply on the side of the door.

            After a few tries, he gives up on the idea completely. Who does he need to be safe for? Death would be a blessing. Maybe a crash would take Alastair out as well. He leans back in the grimy seat and stares out the window as Alastair starts the engine. His life is spiraling so far out of control, and he can’t handle it. First the library and Cas, then the stabbing, and now Lilith? It is too much. He had always know what to expect out of Alastair; he was the most reliable thing in Dean’s life. Now, as he stares out the window at the passing surroundings, he feels nauseas because everything is _so different_. He is wounded more dangerously than ever before, he may or may not have made his first true friend in years, and he is in a suit! A suit!

            Dean is used to wearing tattered rags and his own skin, but to have suddenly so much fabric covering him feels suffocating. The fabric is smooth and silky, but to Dean it is itchy and foreign on his skin. He doesn’t like it. His hair is slicked back in some semblance of a style, and even though this is the most acceptable Dean has ever looked in his life, he still feels ridiculous.

            He shifts his attention away from his appearance and starts to focus on the surroundings as they blur past his window. He doesn’t recognize anything, and it makes him sad because he doesn’t know where he even is anymore, and maybe he’s been to these places before, but he can’t remember. He can’t remember.

            He has lost track of the minutes spent in the car when they finally pull up to a restaurant with a sign out front. He struggles to piece the letters together, and he concentrates on the sign while thinking of his lessons with Cas. Thinking about Cas makes something warm unfurl in his stomach, easing the turmoil and anxiety roiling inside of him.  The letters are just starting to form a word, when the door is wrenched open and Alastair is looming over him with a horrifying tight smile.

            “C’mon Dean.” He says, wide smile very obviously forced. Dean supports his arms on the frame of the car and hoists himself up, keeping his weight on his non-injured leg. How is he going to walk without limping?

            Alastair helps him up, and Dean looks at him with alarmed curiously because Alastair _never_ helps him. Never.

            Then, Alastair tilts his head down and whispers into his ears while maintaining that sickening grin,

            “If you run, talk, or do anything that would give away our little situation…” Alastair looks around the parking lot before continuing, “You know what? I think your imagination can supply you with a good image. You are going to be my pet, Dean. You will speak when spoken too, and you will do so with manners and politeness. You will smile and laugh, and no one will know the better! And when we get home, Lilith has a special surprise in store for you.”

            And before Dean knows what that means, Alastair pulls away and starts walking forward. Dean limps along beside him, dazed and disoriented in the new environment.

            Alastair strolls up to the doors and holds them open for Dean, and he is once again bewildered by the out of character kindness.

            “Thank you.” He murmurs when he passes through the door, and Alastair nods his head at him in what he hopes is approval.

            Dean is overwhelmed by the grandiose setting. The lights are dimmed, and a chandelier hangs from the ceiling in a gratuitous display of wealth. There are people—so many people—bustling through the dark room, and he hears the clatter of dishes and silverware and the faint murmurs of conversation. The back of the restaurant is filled with round tables with white cloths spread over them, and Dean’s eyes lock on one in particular. There is a woman in red sitting at a table in the far corner, and her eyes are pinning him where he stands. He barely registers Alastair’s, “We’re here with Lilith Malum,” because he knows exactly which one Lilith is.

            “Oh yes, right this way.”

            Alastair prods him roughly to follow the server, and he limps along to the back corner of the room, and sure enough, his guess was right. The woman in red is Lilith.

            She stands up immediately, with a cold, metallic smile stretching her face into something sharp and animalistic. Her eyes are sparkling with something Dean can’t quite identify, but he thinks it might be excitement.

            She holds out her perfectly manicured hand, and Dean shakily places his in hers.

            “Oh, Dean. I’ve heard so much about you.” Dean looks her straight in her demonic pale eyes, and says,

            “Hello Lilith.”

* * *

 

            It is the day after Castiel realizes he loves Dean that he ends up in Lawrence’s police station, hands wringing nervously and sweat collecting on his hairline. He is waiting behind a sobbing woman who is pouring her heart out to the obviously overworked receptionist.

            “I just can’t believe we lost him,” He makes out in between her sobs. Interested, he tunes into their conversation. Has this woman lost someone?

            “Ma’am,” The man starts, but the emotional woman cuts him off with another wail,

            “You have to find Fluffy. You have to!”

            Ah. Something tells Castiel that Fluffy isn’t her long lost son.

            His attention shifts away from the emotional catastrophe occurring in front of him, and foucses in on what he is doing. Could he really do this? Could he speak up once in his life, even if he turned out to be utterly wrong? _Does Dean want him to do this?_  He asks himself in a panic, heart rate accelerating as he questions this decision.

            After his confession the day prior, Balthazar had gone on a rant about how ignorant and foolish Castiel had been, and how much harm he wanted to inflict upon Michael for drilling his immoral values into Castiel’s head. A vase had been broken and some heated arguments had been exchanged, but finally, Cas had been convinced. Dean isn’t just a rebellious son. There is something horribly wrong going on in that house, and it is his responsibility as a human being to help.

            “How may I help you?” The voice of the receptionist intones, staring blankly at the space beside his head.

            “Yes, I’d like to report a case of…” he trails off nervously, breathing in to steady his racing heart, “possible abuse.” The receptionist’s face remains impassively blank as she clicks a few buttons on her computer.

            “On what grounds do you file this report, sir?” She asks monotonously, clicking her fingers on the desk in a show of irritation.

            “My friend, Dean, he has all these bruises. He flinches when I try to touch him, and he always looks so….terrified all the time, like he’s awaiting punishment. He stares at this house, like he’s being held there against his will. I’m very concerned for his wellbeing—“

            The woman cuts him off.

            “How old is he?”

            “I don’t exactly know for certain, but he’s probably 25 or so.” Cas answers, narrowing his eyes at her flippant look.

            “Look, buddy, a full grown man with a few bruises is nothing new. It sounds like what you have here is just a little lovers’ spat. If he wanted to leave, he would. He’s an adult—he can leave if he wants to. The police have better things to do then moderate gay domestic fights.”

            Castiel doesn’t know what to say, opening and closing his mouth in an attempt to speak. Before he can come up with a reply, a man bursts into the station and shouts,

            “There’s been a car accident outside!” The receptionist bolts up to alert the policemen, and suddenly Dean’s ‘gay lovers’ spat’ is about as relevant as which underwear Cas will wear tomorrow.

            _What am I going to do now?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh! Here's the chapter! *hides under bed* Don't hate me!
> 
> Thank you all for the follows on Tumblr--they make me so happy! For any of you that want to follow me, my blog is http://primadonna-winchester.tumblr.com :) 
> 
> Also, I have added a submissions page to my blog, so if any of you have prompts, art, edits, suggestions, etc. to send me, you can do that now!! 
> 
> Read, comment, and kudo! I love you all! 
> 
> -SJ xx


	27. The Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has dinner, and someone crashes. 
> 
> **************************************
> 
> I'd like to thank deartabbie for beta-ing this for me!! Thanks so much, Tabbie! :)

            Lilith’s stare is predatory, like she is sizing up her prey before she consumes it whole. She looks like the kind of person that would set things on fire for fun, and Alastair said she “had a surprise for him”. An instinct in Dean’s gut tells him that it’s not the good kind of surprise. As he imagines all the possible methods of torture Lilith could use, he realizes he has been staring a second too long. He jolts his sweaty palm out of her icy one, and sits himself down.

            The posh fabric of the chair is comfortable—in fact, it is the most comfortable thing Dean has sat on in years. Sitting down relieves the pain in his leg, but it arises elsewhere and Dean flushes.

            Alastair is a rough ‘lover’.

            Dean shakes off the thought, gritting his teeth and trying to grin. He is supposed to smile—that’s what people do in public. As he pulls his lips upward into something resembling a grin, an errant thought occurs to him that makes this dinner from hell an ounce more bearable. Cas would be able to tell that his smile is fake; Dean knows this for certain. Whenever he is around Cas, his smile is genuine. He pictures his friend beside him; imagines him placing his hand soothingly on Dean’s leg. His smile starts to become more realistic.

            “Wow, Alastair said you were a pretty boy, but I had no idea you were a sexy man. Damn, those lips are just downright succulent. The things I would do with that mouth…” Lilith purrs seductively as Dean focuses intently on a couple beside them who both have their napkins folded on their laps. Dean grabs the crisp white cloth and spreads it over his trembling knees. His ruptured muscles twinge as he shakes. He isn’t supposed to say anything to that, he thinks. It’s a rhetorical statement. But hadn’t Alastair said he should only speak when spoken to? And Lilith _was_ talking to him.

            “Th-thank you, ma’am.” He stutters out, wiping his palms on the coarse fabric in his lap.

            Lilith is oozing libido, her eyes filled with a lust that frightens Dean. Dean skirts his gaze away from her horrifying eyes and looks to Alastair. He is slouching in his chair with a satisfied, smug grin plastered on his disgusting face. Alastair’s eyes are pinned to Lilith, raking over her breasts and her figure hungrily.

            “Call me Lilith, Sweetheart.” Her wanton desire seeps through every word, and it’s suffocating. Dean nods his head.

            “You know, Dean, when Alastair told me about his little pet, I was so jealous I almost stole you for myself. He suggested we make a compromise. It’s so nice of Al to let me share you, isn’t it?” Lilith is mentally undressing him, he can tell. Dean holds back a shiver at her probing eyes.

            “Yes. Thank you, sir.” He nods at his captor grimly, smile slowly slipping off of his face.

            “Do you know why I know about your situation, Dean?” She says casually, finger circling over the edge of her water glass. Her eyes flit up from beneath her lashes, and Dean thinks it’s supposed to make her look sexy, but to him she just looks even more insane.

            “No,” he answers, heartbeat racing as nerves and anger set in, “Lilith.” He tacks on her name on the end in hopes of earning her favor. It has been engrained in him to obey his superiors. She tilts her head back, long, blonde locks bouncing behind her as she laughs somewhat maniacally. He remembers her laugh from the night he had to hide Cas’s coat. It’s sick and saccharine sweet, almost like a little girl’s laugh. That’s what Lilith reminds Dean of: a little girl who likes to tear the heads off her dolls.

            “You see, I have connections that Al wanted. I have people who know everything about everyone. I made sure no one found out about your little arrangement. We kept an eye on your family, as well. I know your brother, Sammy, is it? Oh, I know him, alright. In the biblical sense.”

            Lilith has met Sammy. Lilith has seen Sammy. Lilith has talked to Sammy. Dean has no idea what, ‘the biblical sense’ means, but he gathers that it isn’t good. Rage floods his body, and the next thing he knows, he is standing up from the table and growling,

            “Don’t you dare touch him!”

            The the whole restaurant is looking at him, and Lilith is seething and Alastair is grinning—he is _grinning,_ and Dean knows why. Lilith is going to tear him apart tonight. Dean isn’t even afraid, not one bit, because he would spend a thousand lifetimes in the custody of Lilith and Alastair if it meant they would stay away from his brother.

            He slowly seats himself back down, and Lilith’s horrified scowl turns into a blinding smile.

            Lilith leans over and whispers in his ear, her warm breath tickling him,

            “He was great in bed. I wonder if it runs in the family.” She draws away quickly, and Dean closes his eyes to control himself from lashing out once more.

            Just in time, the waiter arrives to take drink orders. Alastair has a glass of red wine, and Lilith orders champagne—whatever the hell that is. The waiter looks to Dean, and he sputters,

            “Oh yes, I’ll have um…” He searches through his memory for something he likes to drink besides water. He hasn’t had a glass of milk in a long time.

            “I’ll have milk, please.” The waiter gives him a quizzical look, but writes his order down none the less. When the waiter turns away from their table, Lilith and Alastair start laughing. Dean knows he did something wrong, and he hangs his head in shame.

            “Jesus, he really does still act like a 5 year old.” Lilith says between giggles, and Alastair guffaws beside her.

            “How old is he again?” Lilith asks when their fits of laughter have died down.

            “Dean, when were you born?” Alastair questions, narrowing his gaze at Dean as if to convey, ‘cross me again, and I’ll kill you’. Dean is very familiar with that look.

            “January 24th, 1979, sir.” He barely even remembers that; he had to dig to retrieve the numbers.

            “So,” **(A/N: It is 2004 in this story)** Alastair pauses, “25, then.”

            Dean absorbs this information slowly. He is 25? He has no idea what he expected, but this isn’t it. He thought he might be happy to learn his age. Now, he feels ancient. He has been with Alastair far too long. Years of his life have been stolen away, and if he starts to think about them he wants to cry, scream, and tear his hair out simultaneously. He somehow remembers that Cas is 26, his mind dredging up the random fact in the midst of his shock and anger. 25 years old. Dean is _old_.

            “Yet he still acts like a Kindergartner. It’s remarkable, really. His innocence, it’s so…refreshing.” She places her hand right over his crotch.

            “Well, not that innocent, I suppose.” Dean jolts away from her touch, knees hitting the table. Heat rises to his cheeks and he looks at her in shock. Alastair never dared to touch him there—his pleasure was never important. Yet, even when he is touched there by a woman for the first time, he is not aroused. Dean is satisfied by this fact, and he doesn’t know why.

            Now, if Cas were to touch him there—

            “One milk.” The waiter’s voice interrupts his thoughts, and he is grateful for the distraction because _where the hell did that thought come from?_ Lilith removes her hands from his lap sulkily and sips on her flute of champagne.

            “Can I take your order?”

            Dean looks at the menu in terror. What is he going to eat?

             

* * *

 

            The good Samaritan in Cas rushes out onto the crowded street after he has had a chance to collect himself. A horribly familiar black behemoth of a car is a crinkled mess of metal on the side of the road. Cas knows whose car it is, and his stomach plummets as he sees a flash of red hair.

            “Anna! Anna!” He starts yelling, pushing past the crowds of people gathered around the station. The police are guarding the area with grim faces, and Cas hears the distant whir of an ambulance as he climbs through the throngs of people to the front.

            “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to step back.” A woman officer orders him sternly.

            “That’s my sister!” He is full on panicking now because this is his baby sister Anna caught in that metallic tangle, and not some stranger he has empathy for.

            “Sir, please step back.” The woman prods his shoulder roughly, and he stumbles back a few steps.

            Anna, the baby of the family, the kind sister who clutched tightly to his pajamas in the dead of night when they were caught between screaming matches, is hurt, and Cas is her brother. He pushes past the officer with a rough, “I’m sorry,” and pays no attention to her exclamations as he runs to the scene.

            “Anna!” He is yelling, tears clouding his vision as he is overwhelmed by emotion. As he gets closer, he sees a large body in the driver’s seat, one arm splayed over his sister protectively. It’s Sam, and he can’t even absorb this information because he is now paused outside the wreckage in shock. Police Officers and newly arrived EMT’s are working on pulling them out of the car, and Cas can’t see movement--he thinks he’s going to be sick. All the authorities have given up on trying to restrain him by now.

            His bloodied sister is placed on a gurney, her giant lover by her side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this was late! I hope you enjoyed it! 
> 
> Once again, if anyone has any art, edits, suggestions, etc. for this story they want to send me, submit it to me on my submissions page at primadonna-winchester.tumblr.com! I promise I'll love anything you send! :)
> 
> Once again, I'd like to thank deartabbie for helping me with this chapter!! She's amazing! :) 
> 
> Read, comment, and kudo, lovelies! Spread the word! <3 
> 
> -SJ


	28. The Hospital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is nostalgic and Cas is in a panic.

_What in the hell is L-A-S-A-G-N-A?_ Dean Winchester feels overwhelmed as his eyes scan over the elegant menu. Alastair is discussing his order with the waiter as Dean panics over the words he cannot read. Lilith’s gaze is fixed upon him with razor sharp precision, lips tightly arranged in a smirk as her eyes tell a different story. Her dull, pastel irises are screaming for blood, and Dean knows full well that she is capable of bleeding him till he’s dry. He tries to focus on the menu as the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

            Dean is horribly embarrassed because his pride keeps him from asking for help, but his hunger urges him to ask what the hell R-A-V-I-O-L-I is. He should know how to order for himself, just like how he should be able to buckle a seat belt or read a book. Nausea arrives with more anxiety as he looks around in a panic, searching for a recognizable entrée. All the adults are eating bowls of green stuff, and Dean is sure he used to know what it’s called. That was back when his worries consisted of taking care of his toys and how to talk to Lisa Braeden. Now, he worries about how his brittle bones feel like they are going to snap any second, or how his fucking leg has a gaping hole in it from when his kidnapper stabbed        

            _Kindergarten was a simpler time,_ Dean muses ruefully.

            He doesn’t have time to worry about his condition or to mourn his stolen childhood. He needs to select something that he can actually read, and the freakin’ calligraphy of the menu items isn’t helping him to discern what the letters mean.

            His ears tune into a giggle to his left, and he swivels his head to locate the source of the laughter. A little girl is sitting in a high-chair, squealing as her mother spoon feeds her a yellow bowl of something. Dean stares at the golden noodles as the blond haired mother smiles at her child—and wow, that hurts more than the slow draining of blood in his leg; seeing a mother and her child is like being electrocuted over and over again.

            _Macaroni and Cheese!_ The words come to him randomly, piercing through his maternally induced bubble of grief. He remembers picking out the fun shaped noodles at the grocery store as a child, Sammy bouncing happily in the shopping cart.

            Dean takes a deep breath, anxiety seeping from his body slowly.

            “Sir, what would you like to order?’ The exasperated waiter asks Dean blandly.

            “Uh…Macaroni and Cheese, please.” He fights a blush from rising to his cheeks as he folds up his menu, following Lilith’s example. The waiter nods, scribbles his order down, presumably, and then scurries back to the kitchen.

            “Such a good pet.” A sultry voice coos in his ear as he feels her palm trace up his thigh. Her hands move farther north, and _Oh Dear God_ , Dean is going to throw up because he can hear his zipper being tugged down. He gulps frantically, legs subconsciously guarding against Lilith’s advances as they tremble.

            “I am going to—“Lilith starts, sickening desire dripping from her tone.

            “Lilith. That’s enough.” Alastair barks, glaring at the woman angrily. Possession and envy are brimming in his countenance; fire burns in his pedophiliac eyes as he growls at Lilith. Dean knows better than to be grateful for Alastair’s interruption, but he thanks him silently anyway. Lilith zips him back up, slinking away from him with a wink, and Dean once again recognizes that this is only the beginning.

* * *

 

            They won’t let him into the ambulance. He can’t really get a glimpse of Anna, but he has a feeling that he doesn’t want to. He calls Balthazar from the street, who answers his phone with, “Did you save him? Can I meet him?”  

            Cas doesn’t even pause to relay what happened with that mess of a situation. He can’t process the onslaught of emotions, so he tries to compartmentalize and breathes calmly into the receiver,

            “There was a car crash. They put Anna in a stretcher and told me I couldn’t see her. They wouldn’t let me through, Balthazar. They wouldn’t let me through. I’m her brother.” His voice cracks a tiny bit on the end, his calm façade starting to crumble. His brain is a whirl of confusing paternal instincts warring with childish urges to flee.

            “Oh my God, Cassie...” Castiel doesn’t even flinch at the use of the Lord’s name in vain. He is standing at the corner of the street in which the crumpled mess of vehicles is currently being loaded onto a truck. The cold breeze chills him to the bone, no trench coat to warm him. He really needs to get that back from Dean. He must look like a lost puppy to outsiders as he stares at the rusty spots on the cement that no one is going to clean up. No one is going to scrub his sister’s bloodshed out of the pavement—it will stain this street forever, unknowing civilians will drive over the place of his sister’s demise.

            “I think she’s dead, Balthazar.” No emotion is expressed; Castiel puts on the neutral, calculating voice as his brain races to figure out how the hell he is going to deal with losing both of his siblings within two months of each other.

            “Castiel, you need to get to the hospital. Get in my car, and drive to the nearest hospital. I will meet you there. Stay calm, Cassie. Don’t jump to conclusions. I’ll be there in ten.”

            The robotic beep signaling the end of the call sounds. Cas slips the phone into his inside breast pocket and walks briskly to his car. It takes every molecule in his being to restrain from collapsing. He sits in the borrowed car and starts the engine, his body working on autopilot. He places his hands on the steering wheel mechanically and presses down on the gas.

            He arrives in five minutes, after breaking several speed limits and getting honked at multiple times. Castiel bursts through the doors of St. Michael’s (oh, the cruel irony) searching for the familiar burst of fiery red. His head swivels in a frantic rush to locate his sibling, and he must look very anxious because the man at the front desk asks,

            “Can I help you, sir?”

            “Yes, my sister just got brought here by ambulance. Where is she?”

            “Emergencies are taken to the trauma center. It’s down that hallway and to the right.” Cas doesn’t even have time to thank him.

            He stalks down to the doors of the Trauma Center and pushes them open with a loud bang.

            “Where is my sister?” He practically growls, looking at the pale faces in the waiting room.

             A nurse that is standing to his left yells, “That’s a restricted area!” Cas shoves the swinging doors open, steeling himself for the carnage.

            There is an obeseblond woman being operated on in that room, and before the doctors can yell at him, he shuts the door. Just as he is about to fling open the next door, a baby-faced girl in scrubs approaches him and asks, “Are you looking for the other two from the accident? The redhead and the giant one?” She looks petrified, staring wide eyed up at him in a timid manner.

            “Yes, yes, she is my sister.” Cas responds breathlessly.

            “Oh, those two are up a level. Just ask for their names at the desk.” She whispers as she shuffles her feet.

            “Thank you,” he pauses to read her name tag, “Martha.”

            The thirty seconds in the elevator are agonizing, but then the metal doors finally open to reveal the Medical Ward.

            “Anael Novak. I’m looking for Anael.” His heart is pounding in his throat as the woman looks at her computer, clicking lazily. Cas wants to reach across the desk and strangle her for not being efficient enough for his needs, but before he can really consider it, she says, “Room 234.”

            The linoleum floors squeak under his leather shoes as he searches for 234. When he finds it at the end, he takes a deep breath, prays to God for her life, and opens the door.

            Anna Novak is sitting upright in her bed, the giant man from before holding her hand as he sits beside her.

            “Hello Castiel.” Anna smiles, and Cas can breathe again.

            The giant, lumbering man on her right smiles gently and says,

            “Hi Castiel, I’m Sam Winchester.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I couldn't be that evil and kill off Sam and Anna (I never planned on killing them off, so don't worry!) Hopefully this appeases you! It's kind of an exciting cliffhanger--not an angsty one! Yay!
> 
> Thanks so much, deartabbie, for editing this for me! You are a lifesaver, darling! :)
> 
> Follow my tumblr at primadonna-winchester.tumblr.com! I have a submissions page for anything regarding this story! My ask box is always open! :)
> 
> Read, comment, and kudo!  
> -SJ xx


	29. The Puzzle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is sick, and Cas is learning.

            “Have you ever had a woman, Dean? Have you ever felt—“ Dean hears a loud bang, and feels it reverberate through the wood of the table as he blushes down at his cheesy noodles. Lilith has been lewdly commenting on what she is going to do to Dean the whole night, and Dean is almost thankful to Alastair for his possessive nature that continuously castigates Lilith every time she makes a move.

            After the food arrives, Dean furrows his brow at the glittering set of two forks nestled next to his steaming plate. Two forks? Why does he have two forks? The serrated knife beside the fork stirs something dark and fearful in his gut, dredging up memories of jagged edges cutting through pale skin; crimson lines of blood created by a metal edge. He feels nauseous for a fleeting second as the painful memories present themselves, but eventually hunger wins out, and he grabs his first fork and spears the shell pasta. Rich, creamy, and salty flavor explodes across his tongue, and Dean is pretty sure his eyes are bulging out of his skull because it is the most divine thing he has ever tasted.

            Now, as he stares at the half eaten bowl of pasta after Lilith has removed her icy hand from his leg once more, his stomach is roiling with discord. He knows that the food is delicious—he can taste it on his tongue—yet his stomach will not accept any more. Dean is sure that he’s hungry, he’s always been hungry, but he cannot eat. It is infuriating. He wants to stuff his face full of the greasy, buttery noodles; he wants to _so badly,_ but Dean is _so_ full. So very full. So full, that he starts to feel a familiar urge in his throat, and he looks to Alastair in a panic.

            “I feel sick.” He croaks out, trying to suppress his urge to release his stomach’s contents. Alastair rises immediately, tugging on Dean’s hand and pulling him to the back of the room. Dean can feel the acid in the back of his throat start to rise as Alastair shoves him in a stall just in time.

After he is done heaving, he wipes his mouth on the back of his suit sleeve and shakily rises. He supports his body with the grimy stall walls, as he curses himself. He really wishes he could’ve kept that down—he needed that meal. _Dammit, Dean!_ He thinks, banging his fist on the wall. He flushes the toilet and backs out of the stall uneasily, knowing that Alastair will be angry with him for interrupting their dinner to vomit, of all things!

            He stands in front of the bathroom mirror, refusing to really look at himself in fear of what he’ll see there. He rinses his mouth out and washes his hands, thankful that no one else was present to hear his disgusting heaving. Dean recalls a memory of soft, warm hands rubbing his backs as he spewed his insides; he remembers whispered words and careful touches. He remembers a man in a coat who he met at a library on his first day as a human being. Because, in reality, Dean had not been humanized those 20 years as Alastair’s pet. That first visit to the library was the first time in decades that Dean Winchester had been human, and he had fallen in love in the same day.

            He knows that was when he fell; the day that Cas helped him, the day that Cas saved him, that was when he knew. Dean knows that love is special, that it has to be earned. He can’t think of anyone else that deserves it more than Castiel.

            Even with the lingering taste of bile in his mouth, even with the fear of what lies ahead for him, even with an exhausted soul and fading hope, Dean smiles because he is _in love_ , and nothing can take that way. Not Lilith, not Alastair. Not even himself. It is irrevocable. It is a fact.

            He smiles.

* * *

 

            “Anna!” Cas breathes, rushing to her bedside. Castiel Novak is never one for dramatics, but as he holds his baby sister in his arms, he can’t help but to be succumbed by emotion.

            “I thought you were dead,” He whispers gravely, clutching her tiny body to him gently, weary of the bandages and various wires hooked up to her.

            “Sam’s car protected us—everything else was crushed, but we sat there in the middle of it all. I can’t believe it.” Anna says fragilely, and Cas can tell that she is wrought with relief. He separates with her grudgingly, and looks over to the enormous moose of a man.

            “Hello, Sam. It is nice to finally meet you, minus the circumstances.” Cas says to Anna’s lover, the man who was previously smiling at them tenderly now becoming all business. Cas appraises his large frame. He sees laugh lines and a sheltered life; he sees tiny wrinkles of hardship on the man’s face—wrinkles that shouldn’t be on such a young man’s face. Castiel can sense that Sam is pure, caring, and very intelligent.

            “Yes, it is great to meet you as well, Castiel. Anna spoke highly of you.” Sam’s smile is genuine, Cas can see that. Yet, he can also see the worry drenching his gentle features in anxiety.

            There is a pause, and then Anna is saying, “Did you see the other car, Castiel? I hope they didn’t get too hurt—I could never live with myself if that was the case.”

            Cas’s throat constricts as he remembers the pools of blood he had mistaken for his sister’s. He looks over to Sam, who is giving him a warning look, as if to say, _“Don’t tell her. Lie if you have to,”_ and that is when Castiel decides that he quite likes Sam Winchester.

            “I didn’t really see anything, Anael.” He uses her full name affectionately. He used to call her that when they were just children as he tenderly stroked her hair. Anna narrows her eyes at him with suspicion, but she doesn’t press.

            “I have a fractured rib and a small contusion to the head. Sam has a broken leg, but that’s it. We were so lucky, Castiel.” Anna says, adjusting the bandage on her head with a grimace.

            “I’m so sorry this happened, Anna. I was right outside at the Police Station when I heard there was a crash.”

            “The Police Station? What were you doing there?” Anna asks, alarmed. Sam looks concerned as well, as Cas prepares to tell them a short summary of his situation.

            “I was reporting abuse. My friend, Dean, I think he’s being abused,” Sam’s eyes widen at the name, and he stares with a sense of melancholy and interest as Cas continues, “I know he’s being hurt—and the police wouldn’t listen. It is infuriating, Anna. I just want him to be safe.”

            “Oh, Castiel. I’m so sorry for your friend. Hopefully the police will get some sense knocked into them soon!” Anna exclaims, concern flickering in her eyes as she stares at her brother sincerely. Cas looks towards Sam to gauge his reaction, and is confused by what he sees.

            Sam’s face is pinched in what looks like pain, and it’s almost as if he is holding back tears. He is staring at Cas with a peculiar intensity.

            “Sam, what’s wrong?” Anna asks, picking up on Sam’s tense state.

            “My older brother, his name is Dean. He went missing 20 years ago when I was just a kid. He was only five. Sometimes hearing his name…it brings up hard memories.” Sam presses his eyes closed and swallows down sorrow.

            The last puzzle piece starts clicking into place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness!! I am so sorry for the wait, my loves! Are any of you still out there?
> 
> Cas is starting to figure it out.... :D YAY!
> 
> I would like to thank deartabbie, for beta-ing this for me! Send her lots of love!! :) 
> 
> Also, thanks IThinkI'mAdorable! for pointing out some continuity errors in the last chapter! Dean is actually 25, not 26. 
> 
> If you would like, follow my tumblr at primadonna-winchester.tumblr.com! I have a submissions page for anything regarding this story! My ask box is always open! :)
> 
> Read, comment, and kudo!  
> -SJ xx


	30. The Picture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Lilith are in a car, and Cas is making startling realizations.

            It takes a minute for Dean to delve deep into his scarce reserve of strength to walk back out to the dining room. In the adrenaline rush induced by his urgency to violently empty his stomach, his brain had somehow numbed the pain of his leg. Now, he limps out to the godforsaken table, leg throbbing as he drags himself back to his torturers.

            “We’re leaving, Dean.” Alastair says stonily, glowering at Dean as if vomiting is something he should be able to control.

            He wants to scream, _“I couldn’t help it, you bastard!”_ , yet the only thing that he actually does is stare at the ground with steel in his eyes. He learned a long time ago that talking back will not get him anywhere. Oh yes, there was once a time where Dean was rebellious; defiant. He used to fight until his throat was sore from screaming, until his wrists were raw from trying to escape his bonds. This stage only lasted so long, of course. Even the most spirited pets will submit if you beat them enough--that was Alastair’s motto.

            Lilith is now standing beside Dean, and he takes pride in the fact that even with her ridiculous heels on, he’s still taller. Alastair towers above them, looming over the two like a storm cloud.

            Lilith moves behind him like a viper, and snakes her hands down to rest against his backside. Dean swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing in barely contained disgust and repulsion. Her pale eyes flick over to Alastair and she grins,

            “Can I drive him back to your place?” Alastair’s angered expression breaks out into a grin. On most people, smiles are a good thing. On Alastair? Well, Dean has learned that smiles do not mean happiness.

            “Sure, why not? But don’t do anything, yet. I want to see it when you do. I don’t care what else you do, just don’t fuck him. And be careful. Deanie is precious cargo.” Alastair’s lisp is especially pronounced as he purrs the last bit, and an involuntary shudder rocks Dean to his core. Lilith and him…alone? Something about her is almost more frightening than Alastair. Perhaps it is the peculiar childlike look in her eyes? Or maybe it’s the lethal, calculation that dances behind her demonic irises, thirsty for blood. Lilith has killed before—Dean can sense it. It chills him to the bone.

            “Why of course, Al. We have a deal, after all.” Dean doesn’t look, but he is certain that Lilith has that deranged look on her face, the one that makes him feel like he’s going to be sick all over again.

            Alastair grumbles as he walks away, and Dean lifts his gaze just in time to see him wink over his shoulder. White hot panic hits him in the gut as he tries to look anywhere but at Lilith or Alastair’s retreating figure. His eyes settle on the abandoned meal on the table. His stomach growls in protest, but Dean knows he needed to keep it down. He hasn’t had a meal like that since….well, since his mother.

            “Come on, Dean. Let’s take you home.”

            Dean tries to keep his mouth shut, but he fails. Tonight is a night of failures, it seems. “That place is _not_ my home, and it will never be.” He growls the words, surges of bravery and rage coursing through him as he glares down at Lilith.

            She has a small frown on her face, which once again reminds Dean of a small child.

            “Oh, Dean, I was just beginning to like you.” With that, she roughly grabs his wrist, her sharp and manicured nails digging into his flesh, undoubtedly leaving crescent shape indents.

            She drags him to the front of the restaurant with no acknowledgement of his injury. He stumbles along with her, an embarrassed flush lighting up his cheeks at all the stares he’s getting.

            She talks to one of the men at the front of the room, and hands him something Dean can’t see. She blatantly flirts with the man for a few minutes, Dean standing off to the side awkwardly, jagged pain lacing his body as he glares at anyone who dares to stare at him.

            “Lilith Malum.” A gruff voice says, and then Lilith is grabbing his arm again and pushing him out the doors. A sleek, black car is running outside, and a man clad-in-black holds the door open for her. She opens the front door instead of sliding in the back, brushing off the man’s confused look. *

            “I would like to be alone with my guest tonight.”

            He backs away from the car, and Lilith ushers Dean into the passenger seat. He ducks into the luxurious vehicle, the soft leather and tinted windows making it feel surreal. Lilith’s giggle doesn’t help with reaffirming reality for Dean, and the next thing he knows, they’re pulling out of the lot. Dean looks out the window as an afterthought, and sees the illuminated sign from earlier.

            P-U-R-G-A-T-O-R-Y. Dean has no idea what that means, and he berates himself for his stupidity just to give his mind something to do. He is afraid that if he lets his brain wander, that he will open the car door and roll out onto the road currently rushing past the window. Lilith is the most terrifying woman he has ever met, and he has no idea what she is going to do to him. She is fickle and unpredictable, and if there is one thing Dean is afraid of, it is unpredictability. He likes to be aware of the enemy at all times. Alastair is constant. Dean knows what to expect with him. With Lilith, it’s a whole other ball game.

            About a minute into the drive, Dean is already insane with the cloying scent of sickly sweet perfume clogging up the air in the car. Lilith’s hand is slowly creeping towards Dean’s crotch, and he closes his eyes tightly. Her hand is like ice, heavy and cold on his lap. Her touch is revolting to Dean.

            “I’m going to have so much fun with you, Dean.”

            Her claw like nails grip his thigh tightly as she presses her lipstick heavy mouth to his neck.

            “So…much…fun.”

* * *

 

            “My condolences, Sam.” Castiel has the presence of mind to say grimly, brain racing to compute this new information. His mind reels as he does the math. 20 years ago? 5 years old?

            “It’s alright. It was 20 years ago. My family took it harder than me…I was only a year old.” Anna’s face is brimming with emotion, and it looks as if she is barely holding herself together.

            Cas needs time to process this; he needs to confirm things with Dean, to research before he jumps to conclusions. The last thing he needs is to give a heartbroken man false hope.

            “I am sorry for your loss, Sam,” he pauses to look at Sam, who just nods his head, “I am afraid I must be going now. I have some research to do and you two need to recover. Pardon me for intruding.” He moves to back out of the room, but Anna’s hand reaches out to grasp his wrist.

            “Come back tomorrow?” Her eyes convey what she really means, _“I miss you.”_ Castiel misses her as well—the past few incidences in which they met were not ideal.

            “Yes.” He whispers in answer, bending down to kiss her cheek. He says goodbye to Sam, committing his facial features to memory to compare to Dean’s later.

            His brain is a storm of thoughts as he drives back to Balthazar’s. When he arrives, his cousin is not home. He is thankful that he is absent, for he is not looking forward to explaining the disaster at the police station.

            Cas rushes to his laptop, pulling up a search engine when he is seated on the couch.

            _Dean Winchester missing Lawrence Kansas_

            He clicks on the first article and his stomach plummets.

            There is a picture at the top of the page.

            He sees dark blonde hair and sparkling green eyes, and he _knows._

           

***A/N: I have a vague idea of how valets work, but let’s just say that Lilith has a chauffeur? I don’t know!**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for any errors! This chapter was un-beta'd, so forgive me if there are some mistakes! 
> 
> WOAHHH! Chapter 30? 40k words? 700 kudos? *melts into a puddle* HOLY WOW!! This story is getting huge, oh my chuck! 
> 
> This was filler-ish? so I am sorry for that! It's short and it sucks, and I am so sorry! I promise I will update sooner with a better chapter next time!
> 
> Check out my blog croatoan-winchester.tumblr.com (my url is usally primadonna-winchester, but I changed it for the duration of the apocalypse) for updates for this story, and PLEASE send me fanart, edits, or suggestions--basically anything to do with this story. I will love you forever if you do!! ;) My ask box is always open!
> 
> Sorry for the short chapter, lovelies. Don't hate me? 
> 
> -SJ xx


	31. The Mistakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas is going to save Dean.

            Have you ever taken a really important exam? A test of the utmost importance; a test that you’ve been studying for months for? Have you ever turned in that test, only to realize as you were walking out of the classroom that you have incorrectly answered multiple questions? You want to rewind time, to go back to the moment you were taking that _so_ very _important_ test and see what was right under your nose.

            Castiel feels like this right now, except magnified tenfold. He should’ve known, he should’ve seen, and he certainly should’ve ripped Dean away from that vile man the minute he started to feel the prickling of suspicion in his belly. He is so horrifyingly stupid—no, stupid cannot even begin to describe what he is. Stupid is making a mistake on a test. Castiel has made a fatal mistake, and Dean has suffered from it.

            For the first time in his life, he feels a self-hatred so deep that he wants to stop existing. How could he do this again? How could he put someone so achingly easy to love in harm’s way?

            Cas feels the burn of bile in the back of his throat, and a metallic piercing feeling in his stomach. He has failed Dean, he has failed Darcy, he has failed himself. He should’ve opened his eyes and looked. _It isn’t too late,_ a voice urges meekly from the back of his brain. Amidst his devastation and loathing, he acknowledges this voice. He cannot fail again. He won’t.

            Dean Winchester’s kindergarten picture stares at him from his computer screen, his green eyes glaring into Cas’s soul. _You should’ve saved me, Castiel. You should’ve saved me._ He quickly reads the article, and it pains him like a knife being turned in his insides.

            _Dean Winchester, 5, was taken from a sidewalk in Lawrence, Kansas by an unknown assailant. There were no witnesses. Mary and John Winchester ask that all information regarding Dean be reported to police immediately. “Please, bring my baby back.”_

A door opens and closes somewhere in the house, and Castiel doesn’t even check to see who it is.

            “Cassie, what the hell? I told you to meet me at the hospital? Cassie?”

            He is going to save Dean Winchester, and he is going to do it tonight.

            “Is that..?” Cas registers his cousin’s voice whisper in the background, but he is too deep into his brain to answer. Instead, he stands up robotically, and it feels like his joints are punishing him too. Balthazar is reading the article open on the computer, mouth agape as he begins piecing together what this means.

            “Balthazar, do you have any firearms?” Castiel has never handled a rifle in his life. He can learn.

            “No, Cass—wait, what? What do you need a…oh. You’re going to save him tonight, huh?” Balthazar asks, caution and worry seeping into his tone. Castiel nods stonily. He doesn’t have time for stupid questions.

            “Let me come with you. I can help.” Balthazar pleads, trying to pinpoint Castiel’s mental stability he follows him to the kitchen.

            “No. This is my fight, not yours. I don’t want you getting hurt, Balthazar. Do you have a blade?” Balthazar pauses as if to lie, but then strides over to the fireplace. He grabs something off the mantle, and Castiel sees the light from the chandelier glint off something silver.

            “I got tangled up with some bad shit a few years back. I made it a habit of keeping this around.”

            The blade he gives Cas is some kind of double-edged dagger, and it feels right when Balthazar places it in his palm.

            “Thank you, Balthazar.” He walks to the door, placing his hand over the ornate door knob.

            “Please, Cassie. Let me help you.” Balthazar begs, eyes bleeding concern and desperation.

            “Goodbye, cousin.” Castiel steps out onto the porch, and realizes it is raining. How painfully apt. He shuts the door in Balthazar’s face with a slam of finality, and starts walking. As he walks in the pouring rain, he slips the borrowed blade into his jacket pocket. The water drenches him, but doesn’t deter him. Cas wishes he wouldn’t have been such a stubborn idiot and just used a car, but he doesn’t have time for trivialities.

            Balthazar only lives four blocks from the library, and it takes 20 minutes for Castiel to walk the distance. By the time he reaches Alastair Grey’s house, he is absolutely soaking wet. He knows he must look insane, parading down the street during a thunderstorm. In fact, he garners a few questioning looks as he makes his journey. His hair is matted atop his skull, his suit jacket and pants clinging to him like a second skin. He is numb, driven by a carnal need to protect and avenge the precious green eyed boy from the library.

            He arrives at the house--the creepy godforsaken house that has imprisoned Dean for **20 years**. Something about the place is so evil, so bone-chillingly wrong.

            Castiel stares up at the house, with its crawling ivy, obstructed windows, and desecrated shingles. He starts up the sidewalk.

* * *

 

She starts off slowly. Carefully. With a precision that can only come from a professional.

            That is what Lilith begins with—the carving. She drags a blade over Dean’s skin, drawing red drops of blood when she presses down. Dean wonders how he even has any blood left.

            When they get home, Alastair and Lilith drag him to the basement. Dean struggles for about .3 seconds before succumbing to their will. His leg is injured; he is malnourished, weak and truthfully, too damn tired to even try to stop them. They cuff him to the wall in the basement, arms hanging above his head limply as they strip him.

            Apparently, Lilith is very experienced in the art of torture. Alastair brings her an unfamiliar tool kit of some kind from upstairs, and she sets it on a card table Alastair has dragged down the steps. Alastair also manages to bring something else down the stairs, and it makes Dean nauseous because this is the worst possible thing Lilith could do: make him watch. It’s a mirror—one of those giant standing mirrors that he places in front of a shackled Dean. She opens the sleek grey case, back turned to him, her crimson nails tracing the outline of something Dean can’t see.

            Alastair leans against the far wall, staring at Dean maliciously from his perch in the dimly lit room. Dean hears the metallic clink of something _unsheathing,_ and he takes frantic gulps of air to try to calm his nerves. Lilith is going to torture him. This is nothing new to Dean, but it still frightens him just as much as it did the first time Alastair cut into his previously unaltered flesh.

            Alastair’s torture is more…sexually oriented, but when Lilith turns around with a thin knife clutched in her pale hands and a sadistic look in her eyes, Dean knows she doesn’t plan to fuck him.

            She slinks up to his bare chest, spinning the knife as a venomous smile spreads across her face. Dean has never seen someone whose eyes say they like to hurt people for _fun._

“So pretty, Dean. Such a beautiful boy, you are. I just want to open you up like a present.” She presses her face to Dean’s neck, and sucks the skin there. He is confused. Why is she sucking on him? Lilith lets go of the skin in her mouth with a loud smack, and Dean can see in the mirror an angry red spot start to form where her lips were **.** She takes the thin blade in her other hand and drags it down his chest as she presses her mouth to his ear. Bright stinging pain lights up his body as she whispers in his ear,

            “I think I am going to open you up. See what you look like inside…” she purrs.

            Dean closes his eyes.

* * *

 

            It is when Castiel is standing on the doorstep of Alastair Grey’s house that he begins to question his plan. What is he going to do? Barge in with his toothpick of a blade and demand that Dean be released? He is inexperienced, nervous, blinded by rage, and he really shouldn’t be planning an assault in the shape he is in.

            All he can think is, _I’ve kept Dean waiting long enough. It’s time to do this, Castiel. This is your duty._

            In a fleeting moment of clarity, he decides to try the back door instead of the front. He sees that there are no cars in the driveway as he carefully walks to the back of the house. The rain is a light drizzle now, which Castiel thanks God for. The sun has set, leaving behind an icy, night chill in its wake.

            As he stalks up to the dirty white back door, he glimpses a flash of brown in a bush beside the door. He steps closer to the shrub, and recognizes the bundle of fabric nestled in it immediately. His trench coat. The back door is sheltered by an awning, leaving his trench coat blissfully dry. He knows as he shrugs the familiar coat on that Dean is the one who put it there.

            Castiel takes a deep breath once his coat is situated, and grips Balthazar’s weapon to his chest tightly. With a sudden burst of adrenaline, he tries the door handle. It swings open with a creak.

            The house is deadly silent, and that’s what Castiel fears the most: Death. The death of Dean.

            He walks into the house carefully, shoes squeaking on the disgusting linoleum. He pauses once the door is shut, listening for any signs of a presence.

            He waits for a few seconds, but hears only the eerie static of the television set in the living room. Cas creeps along the kitchen, blade raised and senses on high alert. His heart is pounding through his whole body, and it sounds like the drumbeat of a battalion marching into battle.

            He passes a closed door on the way to the living room, and something about the door doesn’t seem right. He has the uncanny sense that something very wrong is hiding behind that door. He places his shaky hand on the handle and turns.

            The door opens to reveal a set of stairs, and at the bottom of the steps, there is a room. Castiel can see the sole lightbulb hanging from the ceiling of the basement, and guided by a sense of foreboding, starts walking down the stairwell.

            He hears a groan, and freezes. _Dean._

            Castiel rushes down the steps, almost tripping over a few, heart in his throat and hope throbbing in his veins.

            “Dean!”

            Dean Winchester lies naked, bleeding, and crumpled on the floor of that damned basement.

            It feels like time is at a standstill when Cas scrambles to Dean’s side, tears threatening to spill over. Castiel’s heart shatters.

            “No, no, no more!” He hears Dean whimper as he touches the unharmed skin of Dean’s shoulder.           

            “Dean. It’s me. Cas.” And then Dean is in his arms, and nothing has ever felt more right in all of Castiel’s pathetic existence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHH! ITS FINALLY HAPPENING GUYS
> 
> I'd like to thank my friend deartabbie for editing this for me, and giving me great ideas!! 
> 
> Oh yes! Check out my blog primadonna-winchester.tumblr.com for updates for this story, and PLEASE send me fanart, edits, or suggestions--basically anything to do with this story. I will love you forever if you do!! ;) My ask box is always open!
> 
> Thanks so much, lovelies! xx
> 
> -SJ


	32. The Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean tells his story, and Cas listens.
> 
> YOU GUYS!! Today's chapter features some lovely art by the amazing consulting-hunters-n-timelords! Isn't it great? :D Go check out their blog at consulting-hunters-n-timelords.tumblr.com!

**_(Art by consulting-hunters-n-timelords.tumblr.com) Thanks so much, sweetie!_ **

            Red smudged hands grasp onto his musty trench coat, gripping tight as if Cas will pull away any second.

            Castiel Novak never cries. He hasn’t shed a tear in over a decade, he’s certain. When he pulls Dean’s trembling body into the warmth of his arms, he feels those alien tears welling up again as his throat tightens uncomfortably. Those feelings boiling inside of him, they are foreign and Cas doesn’t know what to do with them. A confusing mixture of devastation, horror, and relief runs through him, and his stomach is now somewhere near his feet.

            Dean is making strangled noises as he presses his stubbly chin to Cas’s neck. Cas can feel the slick of blood against his skin, warm and slippery as it drips from Dean’s wounds. The constricting feeling in his throat is getting tighter, and now he feels like he can’t breathe because someone has been doing this to Dean for so long, and _nobody knew._ Dean has been held captive in a basement for two decades, while Cas worried about which color tie to wear to church on Sunday. How could something this atrocious have happened right under everyone’s nose? He has to stop thinking about it, afraid that he will have an absolute melt down because this is so horrifying and currently his brain is a mess of _: I don’t know what to do!_

            Instead, he looks at Dean. He stares at beautiful broken Dean, who doesn’t know how to read a book; Dean, who doesn’t know that his brother has been missing him for 20 years. Dean, the most innocent 25 year old Cas has ever met, yet also the most pained. He is so gorgeous. Even in the grim lighting of the blood soaked basement, even grotesquely thin and sliced from his captor’s blade, Dean is the most beautiful man Cas has ever had the honor of falling in love with.

            Dean’s naked body is shivering in his grasp, and he can see jagged cuts running down the pale skin that is visible. His eyes caress the angry red lines, and he wishes he could kiss them all and make them disappear. He wishes he could erase all the pain, but he can’t, and that knowledge makes Castiel so infinitely sad that he doesn’t dwell on it longer.

            “Dean.” He breathes into his dark hair, salty tears snaking down his cheeks to land in the tousled locks. “I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry.”

            They stay like this for a few minutes, Cas crying softly into Dean while mumbling apologies, Dean rocking back and forth as he shakes in his arms. They must make a most horrifying pair, two grown men crying in a basement, one naked and bleeding.

            “Dean, who did this to you?”

            The resounding silence is word enough.

            “Alastair.” Cas growls, picturing the demented man who everyone in Lawrence avoids like the plague. _What a perfect setup it was_ , Cas thinks ruefully. Who knows how long Dean would’ve lasted if not for Alastair’s one mistake: The Library.

            “It was her.” Dean’s voice wavers, muffled by Cas’s coat.

            “Who, Dean? Who did this?” Castiel will kill them. He will slice their throats and make them bleed, and he will rejoice in their deaths. Whoever did this deserves to die.

            “Lilith.” Her name sounds like poison on Dean’s lips. “She…cut me. Made me w-watch in the m-mirror,” he gestures to the standing monstrosity in the corner, “There was so much blood, Cas, so much…” Dean shudders, pressing tighter into Cas’s lapel.

            “It’s alright, Dean. I’m here now. She won’t hurt you ever again. I’m going to get you out of here. I promise.” He can feel his heart bleeding, torn apart by Dean’s whimpers, and it hurts so badly because he could’ve done something all those years, and yet here he is, decades late.

            “Dean, how did you get here? How long have you been here?” Cas asks, stroking his fingers through Dean’s matted hair.

            So, Dean tells Cas a story. He tells the story of a little boy who missed the bus. He tells Cas of a little boy turned into a man at the tender age of 5. He tells him how bleeding makes you old and suffering makes you tired. He tells the story of Dean Winchester, of a boy who used to paint pictures of his family in a cell, who stopped believing in God at the age of 7 because no God would ever leave him here. He tells the story of a murdered mother, a warped image of a brother unknown, and a deadbeat father who had never been more absent. He tells Cas how hard it was to hold on, and how hard it was to convince himself that all of it was to protect his brother. He tells of a never ending story, whose author wanted it to end even though it never did. He tells his story, and Castiel listens.

            “And then, I met you, Cas. I met you when I wanted to die, and you saved me. You saved me, Cas.” Dean’s voice is breathy and weak now, a barely there rattle as he clutches tighter to him. _No, I didn’t, Dean. I didn’t save you,_ he wants to scream. He wants to shout until he’s blue in the face because no one saved Darcy and no one saved Dean either.

            “Dean.” He shakes him in a clenching panic, rattling Dean until his green eyes open once more.

            “You have to go, Cas.” Dean shoves him weakly, trying to pull away from him. Cas is as resolute as a statue, holding stock still as Dean tugs on him lightly. He pulls Dean closer to him in response. Cas can feel clammy skin underneath his hands, and that can only be a bad sign. “Lilith and Alastair left to get drinks or something. They’ll be back soon. You have to get out of here before they come back!” Dean warns him, panic lacing his tone as he gestures for Cas to go. Castiel marvels at his strength. After all these years of constant torture and abuse, and Dean still has the willpower to push his only chance of salvation away just to protect them? Dean’s selflessness is comparable to none.

            “No. I am going to get you out of here. Come on, Dean. Don’t you want to meet your brother?” Recognition lights up in Dean’s eyes at the mention of Sam, and Cas can see a flicker of determination light in his eyes. Cas feels a dangerous swell of hope in his gut.

            “Sammy?” Dean croaks, seemingly more alert. He shifts his body until he’s sitting up in Cas’s lap, and it is such a vast improvement that Cas is shocked.

            “Yes, Dean. I met Sam. He’s very tall.” Cas thinks this is an understatement, remembering how Sam towered over him in the hospital room.

            “You met Sammy?” Dean whispers in wonder, looking up at Cas with awe. Cas realizes that Dean hasn’t seen his brother since he was just a baby, and he pains for Dean with an intensity he has never felt before. The thought of having grown up without Anna is horrifying.

            “Yes. I did, Dean.”

            “Was he okay? Did those sons of bitches hurt him? I swear to God I’ll—“

            Cas interrupts with a soothing, “He is fine, Dean. Perfectly healthy.”

            “Don’t you want to see him again, Dean?” Cas asks, carding his fingers through Dean’s unkempt mane.

            He nods weakly at him, a fierceness in his eyes that Cas has never seen in him before.

            “We have to go, Dean. Should I carry--?” He begins to say, but stops when he hears the bang of a door opening upstairs.

            “Oh Deanie…” A sultry voice echoes from above them.

            “Lilith.” Dean whispers, horror etched on every line of his face. Fear hits Cas unexpectedly, piercing him like an arrow. He isn’t prepared for this, having to go on the offensive. He really hasn’t thought this through, and suddenly he finds himself yearning for Balthazar’s presence as he fingers the cold blade tucked in his coat.

             Cas and Dean are frozen on the cold blood stained ground, grasping onto each other as they listen intensely to what is happening on the upper floor of the house. They hear a door slowly creak open, and if it isn’t the most terrifying noise Cas has ever heard in his life, he doesn’t know what is.

            Sharp, stabbing clangs are heard, and Cas recognizes them as high-heeled footsteps. Every cell in his body turns to ice, and he hears the intake of breath Dean takes after a few steps.

            Finally regaining the presence of mind, Dean pushes Cas away from him with a surprisingly strong shove, and points to the giant standing mirror in the corner of the room. Cas scrambles behind it quickly, making sure he isn’t visible.

            “Did you miss me?”

            Cas’s heart races like a marathon runner, beating wildly as he conceals himself behind the mirror. He peeks out from behind it after a few seconds of silence, and what he sees inspires a fury inside him that he has never experienced in his life. Dean is awakening things inside of him that he didn’t even know were possible. Lilith is kissing Dean, _kissing him,_ and Cas can see Dean’s pleading look over her shoulder, but he is so angry that he can’t see, he can’t breathe, because everything is red with anger.

            He removes Balthazar’s dagger from his breast pocket and starts to move out from behind the mirror, looking at Dean as he moves closer. Rage is hot and heavy in his brain, clouding all else until all he can focus on is Dean getting away from that vile woman.

            _No_ , he reads the word on Dean’s blood stained lips as Lilith pulls away and moves down his jaw. He sees the utter panic and desperation in Dean’s bloodshot eyes, and it prevents him from moving. It is like his feet are cemented into the floor, helpless as he watches Lilith graze her teeth over Dean’s neck.

            Dean looks pointedly at the staircase, indicating with his weary gaze that Cas needs to leave now. Except, he can’t. He can’t do anything besides look at Lilith’s lips on Dean, he can’t see anything besides red blossoming bruises sprouting on his collarbone. Lilith shoves Dean into the wall, and Cas’s heart jumps when he sees the blood trickling down from Dean’s hairline. She takes a break from her lewd activities to shackle him to the wall once more, spreading his arms in mockery of Jesus’s crucifixion. Bile rises in Cas’s throat as he realizes this. He supposes he watches Lilith ravage Dean for another ten minutes, watching as she sucks on him, kisses him, and plays with him like a doll. He has to stop himself from revealing himself when she sinks her teeth into his shoulder like an animal. Dean’s precious features twist in pain, and it feels like a serrated knife is being twisted in Cas’s stomach.

            _This can’t be happening,_ Cas thinks, shaking with the force of his rage as he huddles in the corner of the darkened basement. This is literal hell on Earth, watching Lilith do these things to Dean, standing helpless in a goddamn corner. He is so entranced by watching them and controlling his anger, that he doesn’t realize until it is too late.

            “Well, well, well, look what we have here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN DUN DUN  
> The cliffhanger to end all cliffhangers XD  
> I am so sorry for doing this to you guys! I feel like Satan, OMC!  
> Please don't kill me? Please?
> 
> If you want to make some art for this story as well, please submit it to my blog at primadonna-winchester.tumblr.com, and I'll love you forever! You can follow me as well! My ask box is always open! Oh, also, you can get updates on this story on my tags page under "The Library"! 
> 
> That's it for today, lovelies! Sorry for the wait! <3
> 
> -SJ xx


	33. The Terror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SO MUCH SADNESS I AM SO SORRY

            Dean Winchester can’t breathe.

            Lilith is choking him with her saccharine sticky lips, and Cas is suffocating him with those angry blue eyes whose beauty is also contributing to Dean’s lack of breath. Fear has him in a strangling hold, clutching his throat and closing off his lungs. He can’t breathe because when he looks at Cas and thinks about how he might never make it out of here with him, oxygen is no longer important. He would rather stop breathing now instead of slowly bleeding out like a sopping wet sponge.

            Except Dean can’t die; he can’t because once again in this grueling prison sentence that is his life, he has to hold on to make sure someone he loves stays safe. He has to.

            So he breathes, he gasps for breath in between her kisses, and fear loosens its chokehold. He can handle this, this kissing. It’s uncomfortable, it’s violating, and it is absolutely disgusting, but it isn’t the worst Dean has had. Psychological and physical abuse doesn’t matter; it’s okay because it’s him and not Cas.

            What is certainly more horrible is the horrified look coming from his friend in the corner of the room. Something insides him pitifully snaps as he sees how sad and angry Castiel looks. The sorrow on his face is unnatural—it’s wrong, and Dean wishes it would go away.

            Every cell in Dean’s body is on edge, searching for a way that Cas can escape. They had unchained him when they left, positive that he couldn’t leave in the state he is in, and they are probably right. They are royally screwed, stuck in this basement as Lilith has her way with him. Cas needs to get out now, before Lilith really gets going, and before…

            “Well, well, well, look what we have here.”

            _No. No. No, no, no, please, God no!_

Alastair.

            He stands in the garish fluorescent lit stairwell, ominous and more bone-chillingly terrifying than ever before. Alastair strides over to the corner of the room quickly, and Dean can only watch helplessly as he pushes aside Cas’s last defense, and grabs him by the collar of his beloved coat. The standing mirror shatters into a million glittering pieces.

            Dean feels like he is shattering along with the mirror, feels like he has broken into a billion pieces that all scream, “Cas!” This isn’t supposed to happen. It is always Dean, only Dean—no one else is supposed to get hurt!

            He doesn’t register that he is screaming until Lilith picks up a razor blade and holds it to his neck, whispering, “Shut. The. Hell. Up.” She presses the blade deeper into his skin with every word. “Oh my, Deanie boy. You’ve really screwed up now, haven’t you?”

            Dean doesn’t know what Alastair’s Armageddon foretold in the Bible is supposed to be like, but he thinks the end of the world is like this. This is the end of his world.

            Castiel is dangling from Alastair’s grip, horror and shock etched onto every line of his weathered face.

            “No! Let him go!” Dean roars, turning feral as he sees the blade being held to Castiel’s perfectly white throat by Alastair.

            “Shut the hell up, or I cut your tongue out and make him eat it!” Lilith hisses, a childish yet maniacal lilt in her voice. She enjoys this, Dean knows it.

            “Did you really think you could hide this from me, Dean? Your little fuck buddy that comes over every day after school? Did you think that I wouldn’t find out? Hmm?” Alastair looks at Dean with more crazy in his eyes than he has ever seen before. This is a whole new level of insanity for Alastair, and it frightens Dean down to the bone.

            Dean can see that Cas is struggling in Alastair’s grasp, gritting his teeth as he tries to reach something in his coat. Dean doesn’t dare to hope that what Cas is trying to retrieve is a weapon.

            “I trusted you. I let you go to that damn library even though I knew it was a bad idea, because I trusted you! I trusted you!” Alastair bellows, and Dean can see Cas wince at the noise.

            “Obviously, I was wrong to do so. Lilith, chain him up. We’re going to have some fun with ‘Cas’ over here.”

            “No! Cas! No! Please, no! Take me instead! Take me! Please don’t do this! It’s all my fault!” He is screaming now, flailing his limbs sporadically as Lilith chains him to the wall. Cas looks at him steadily, blue eyes strong and bright even in the darkness. Dean knows he must be terrified, but Cas looks unruffled as Alastair drags him over to the table.

            “It’s okay, Dean.” Cas says quietly, voice breaking on the last syllable.

            Dean wants to yell, “I’m sorry!” until his throat is raw, but all he can do is shake his head.

            “It’s okay.” Cas whispers, almost as a reassurance to himself as he lies on the table while Alastair and Lilith prepare themselves.

            “No!” Dean howls, struggling against his bonds as he reopens dozens of wounds.

            “You really know how to pick them, Deanie boy. He’s a pretty one.” Alastair coos, as Lilith giggles. He hears metallic clinks coming from where they are standing, and it ignites fear deep in his belly. He knows those sounds far too well. He continues to scream and thrash around, even though he’s bleeding more and his throat is scratchy from overuse.

            Dean catches the silver glint of a blade, and wants to claw his eyes out because this cannot be happening, not to Cas, not to his _angel._ Dean had stopped believing in angels when he stopped believing in God, which is to say, _very_ long ago. Dean thinks that the angels from the Bible may not be real, but Cas is as close to one as he can get. Cas is his guardian, his friend, his messenger from the outside world—and isn’t that what angels are like in the Bible? He brings light and happiness into his life, and his smile alone is celestial in its own right. Cas has risked his life to _save_ him. No normal human would ever do this. Castiel is special. Castiel is his angel in a faithless pit of despair.                           

            Cas’s sharp intake of breath echoes across the room, and Dean can’t breathe again, he can’t see, he can’t move, because he is feeling Cas’s pain with crystal clear agony.

            Cas doesn’t make a sound beyond a whimper, and Dean wonders how he can hold in the moans and the sobs.

            Dean has never personally seen somebody he loved tortured. He has heard Alastair’s describe his mother’s demise countless times, but no matter how many times he has heard the stories, nothing could prepare him for this. Cas makes little breathy noises from where he lies, and it makes it so much worse for Dean because he knows Cas is trying to hold in his screams for his sake.

            “Cas! No! Stop it! Take me!” Dean can’t stop screaming, begging for them to release his friend and to use him as a substitute.

            When they don’t pay attention to his cries, he begins to weep silently in his corner. Cas’s grunts get quieter. Dean’s heart shatters more. The life is being bled from both of them.

            Dean can’t see what they’re doing, Alastair and Lilith’s backs are blocking the way, but occasionally he hears the _drip drip_ of blood hit the cement floor. It sickens him further to think of Cas’s blood adding to the river of Dean’s that has already flooded the ground.

            Sometimes he can hear them, talking.

            “Just like that, Al. Yes.”

            “No wonder Dean picked you...”

            “A new toy…Dean was getting old…”

            Just bits and pieces of disjointed mumblings, but it is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know what to say! I'm so....sorry? Don't murder me please??
> 
> If you want to make some art/edits for this story, please submit it to my blog at primadonna-winchester.tumblr.com, and I'll love you forever! You can follow me as well! My ask box is always open! Oh, also, you can get updates on this story on my tags page under "The Library"!
> 
> Thanks for reading, my loves! Sorry for the wait and overall crappiness of this chapter! I needed to give my wrist a break! 
> 
> I promise next chapter will be better, and more punctual!!
> 
> -SJ xx


	34. The World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh christ almighty i don't even know what to say here

            Torture was just a word, before this, used in the context of a movie or read in a book. Torture was a simple seven letter word that sounded dramatic and never really happened in real life.

            Castiel Novak has never experienced torture before. He has never felt the cold metal of a blade sink into his skin while lips are moving down his neck, never had to hold back screams before, never had to worry about bleeding out, or how he can get oxygen in his lungs. He has never had to worry about sacrifice, pain, or torture. Above all else, Castiel Novak has never had to worry about another human being that he loves the way that he is worrying about Dean Winchester.

            It gets to the point where delirium is overpowering his lucidity.

            Cas starts to see shapes in the ceiling, starts to hear things that aren’t being said. He can’t discern whether or not Dean’s frantic, “Cas, please! This wasn’t supposed to happen!” is real, and he can’t figure out if Lilith’s purring is as lewd as it sounds or if it is warped by the blood loss and the overall insanity slowly creeping into his brain.

            His lip is bleeding now, adding to the long list of his extremities that are currently dripping crimson. Cas’s teeth have created deep gashes in the plump flesh of his lower lip, a feeble coping device to try and manage the god-awful hurt echoing through him.

            _How could Dean survive this for so long?_ Cas thinks during bouts of sanity.

            The first time Alastair unsheathed his knife, Castiel had absolutely panicked. Up until that point, he had been trying to maintain a façade of calmness, trying to sooth Dean and prevent him from hurting himself trying to escape. Obviously, his façade was poor, and even naïve Dean could see through it. Cas was absolutely terrified.

            When they strapped him down to the table, he had thought, “If Dean can handle this, so can I.”

            He was wrong.

            He was so horribly wrong.

            Cas feels pain in every cell of his body, in every follicle, in every crevice and pore. At first, it was bursts of pain, stinging and bright flashes brought on by shallow cuts. Now, it is a slow, deep ache that has spread everywhere, and he knows he’s keening like a dying animal, but _he can’t stop._ The only thing Cas can even try to equate the pain to is that one time he fell out of a tree in 5th grade and broke his arm, multiplied a thousand fold.

            When he thinks of Dean on this table all these years, under Alastair’s knife, it makes him ill, contributing to his already roiling stomach. It is a new experience for Cas, physical revulsion mingled with nausea brought on by pain, and he doesn’t have time to be embarrassed before he’s retching, head tilted to the side. Cas faintly hears an appalled, “Disgusting!”, but his head is too fuzzy to tell for sure.

            With his head tilted to this side, he can see Dean through his heavy lids.

            He can see Dean tugging on his bonds across from them, and it’s like his brain clears up only for Dean, because he can see him with perfect clarity—Cas can see Dean, hissing and struggling, fighting for him, _him,_ and it makes his bloodied lips tilt up in a smile. His hazy eyes meet Dean’s from across the room, and it’s like an out-of-body experience, because suddenly he can focus in on Dean’s eyes (he never noticed before how vibrantly green they were), he can see Dean’s lips, cracked from dehydration yet still unfairly plump and precious. He finds himself marveling at the freckles he can see dotting the bridge of his nose, and suddenly he desires to lie beside him and count all of them, perhaps while they’re lying on a blanket of grass under the sun, or maybe on a rainy Saturday morning when they’re snug together like a puzzle piece.

            Dean is a wreck, nose running and eyes red from the tears still pouring down his face, and even then he is achingly gorgeous to Castiel.  

            He realizes then that he unabashedly needs to be with Dean. He needs to get to know him better, to find out whether he sleeps on his side or on his stomach. Cas needs to know how Dean’s voice sounds at 2 in the morning; he needs to feel that hair carding through his fingers. He needs to know what Dean dreams about—what his views of the world are, what his laugh sounds like when he is relaxed. He needs to know these things, and it hurts even more to realize he will never know them.

            Cas is fading quickly—he can tell because the edges of his vision is starting to look like a TV set on static, and he can feel his heart sluggishly pumping blood through his veins. He has no idea what Alastair and Lilith have been doing—he’s been staring at Dean or the ceiling the whole time, but he can feel the cuts getting deeper, and the blood getting thinner as it seeps from them.

            He remembers one time he had to get a cavity filled when he was just a kid, a result of too much candy from Gabriel. They gave him that “laughing gas” which really wasn’t funny at all, because as he breathed in through the bizarre looking mask that the dentist put over his face, the paneled ceiling started to swirl and he felt horribly out of control; like he was going to pass out or maybe drift away out the window. Cas feels like that now—like the world is swirling to the sound of a dentist drill; like he’s going to float out of this basement and into the sky.

            He can’t really feel anything anymore—his body has gone into shock, and he’s lying like a wet noodle on the table. While Cas’s body fights to keep doing the basic tasks it has been doing every day of his life, he stares at Dean.

            “I’m sorry.”

            His eyes slide shut against his will, and swirling darkness consumes him.

            Dean watches as his hands falls off the side of the table, dangling useless beside him.

            He can’t scream anymore—he’s hoarse and all out of insults to hurl and pleas to yell.

            All he can do is whimper.

            “No, no, no, no, no…” His voice is barely audible, cracking with tears unshed and disbelief.

            Cas, barely conscious, can hear Dean’s whimper even in his nearly vegetative state. He hears it, and all he can think is of a poem he once read to a beautiful boy at the library.

_This is the way the world ends_  
 _This is the way the world ends_  
 _This is the way the world ends_  
 _Not with a bang but a whimper._

Cas’s world ends with Dean’s broken whimper. He succumbs to the blackness.

            Dean can see Alastair and Lilith shaking him, as if they can rattle the life back into him. They did this, they did this to Cas, and all Dean can think is, _dead_ , and _Cas,_ and _their fault._

            Dean is furious with grief as he pulls on his chains. He feels the violent need to hurt something, and the ferocity of this need would be shocking to Dean on any other day.

            With one last giant tug, the chains separate from the wall, leaving the cuff dangling from his wrist.

            He is free, and he is angry.  

 

***the poem quoted above is from The Hollow Men by T.S. Eliot. It is one of my favorite poems.***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .....I'm dead, aren't I?
> 
> I am so, so sorry. 
> 
> Oh god.
> 
> Wow. 
> 
> -SJ xx
> 
> P.S. This story has reached 800 kudos, and I am in disbelief. 800 people read my story and took the time to hit that button. 800 people. I think I'm gonna cry. I wish I could give every single one of you 800 beautiful souls a hug. I love all of you!! ♡


	35. The Stand Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is rubbish, I am so sorry!

            Balthazar is…concerned. It is an unfamiliar feeling, and it is as uncomfortable as it is foreign. He leads a rambunctious, carefree life. This…familial concern does not fit his lifestyle in the slightest. Ever since Castiel popped up in his life like a zombie returning from the dead, (as he might as well have been dead the last several years, with his total absence from Balthazar’s life) his life has been like an episode of fucking Days of Our Lives, complete with kidnappers, love, fights, deaths, and so much goddamn drama. Balthazar thought he was done with the apparently inherent Novak drama—he thought he had escaped. He was wrong.

            At first, when Castiel has only been gone for several minutes, he tries to reassure himself that Castiel will be fine, and if he said he shouldn’t come, he shouldn’t. _The last thing I need is a court case on my hands,_ he thinks to himself coldly. Minutes pass by too quickly, the grandfather clock he imported from Britain is ticking its mocking song. After a half hour, Balthazar has somewhat successfully convinced himself that Castiel is a grown man that doesn’t need his protection. He goes about his business; he makes himself a pathetic dinner of toast, (the first sign that he has really hit rock bottom) turns on the news, and puts his feet up on his leather ottoman.

            _Cassie is fine, just fine._

            An hour later, Balthazar is sitting in his bed watching some crime show about an “affair turned deadly” when he really starts to panic.

            Castiel Novak just doesn’t use weapons. Cassie wouldn’t even kill bugs when he was a kid, insisting that, “every one of God’s creations is beautiful, and deserves a right to life, Balthazar”. This just isn’t the cousin he knows, and it is so peculiar and unsettling that he doesn’t know what to do with it. He has been raised not to ask questions, not to meddle, but somehow this feels so horribly wrong. Balthazar feels it in the prickling of the hair on the back of his neck—Castiel is in danger.

Who does he call for help? Michael? His Uncle? Anna? The police? Where even is Castiel? Is he with Dean in the house near the library? Is he at the hospital at Dean’s bedside? Is he in jail? Is he dead? The last thought really strikes fear into Balthazar. What the hell is he doing? Castiel is his family, and he needs his help.

So, that is how Balthazar finds himself in his ostentatious car in the middle of a thunderstorm at 9 o’clock on a Sunday night. He is armed with a pistol—which he had hidden in a safe in his room. He hadn’t given it to Castiel, too worried that he’d do something stupid. He regrets that decision now. He pulls up to the library, and shuts the engine off. There is a flash of lightening that illuminates the house across the street, and it brings back a memory of Cas explaining that Dean lived directly across from the library. He opens the car door as thunder vibrates the ground beneath his feet.

*

            Dean has never been this angry in his life. Actually, he doesn’t even know if what he is feeling can classify as anger; perhaps he would call it all-encompassing rage, or maybe absolute fury. He can’t even mourn for the loss of his…whatever Cas is (was?) to him…although it hangs in the back of his mind like an anvil waiting to crash down on him. It’s a feeling comparable to none, and it’s causing him to quake in his skin, to imagine things that seem like they’ve been born from Alastair’s mind and not Dean’s. For instance, right now, Dean is imagining what Alastair would look like without skin, and what Lilith would look like without intestines.

            All he can see is Cas’s pale hand hanging off the edge of the bloodied table, and he can’t move, he can’t breathe, he can’t speak—because if he tries to move he’ll be at Cas’s side, if he tries to breathe he’ll choke on Cas’s name, and if he tries to speak he’ll scream.

            _Cas is dead. Cas is dead. Cas is dead, and it’s their fault._

            Dean knows Lilith and Alastair are standing above Cas’s body, paused like statues, and he knows exactly what they’re thinking: they broke their play toy.

            His wrists are raw from escaping his constraints, and he hardly feels the all too familiar trickle of blood running down his arms.

            Dean had tried a very few times to stand up to Alastair. There were failed escape attempts when he was new at being a captive, a few screaming fits, some biting and kicking that lasted for about a week. Alastair thinks he beat the fight out of him long ago. Except the fight in Dean is not gone. It has been rekindled by the sight of his angel lying dead in the basement, the basement that has seen every part of Dean, and it feels like something snaps. He feels electricity in his veins, and it warms his blood and tingles his fingertips, and it is the most real he has ever felt. He is strong, and he is going to stand up to Alastair for the one time in his entire existence.

            As Dean tries desperately to find a semblance of sanity in the chaos of his brain, something glints in the dim lights of the basement. A knife of some kind has fallen off the table, and the next thing Dean knows, he has scampered across the room to clutch the blade in his trembling hands. As he stands beside the table (he has still not seen Cas yet, and he knows if he sees him he will absolutely crumple into nothingness) he tries to adjust to the weight of a weapon in _his_ hand for a change.

            Alastair and Lilith look at Dean, shaking, naked, and bleeding Dean, and they smile. They smile because they know they’ve broken him with this.

            “What’s that you’ve got there, Deano? Is that supposed to scare me?” Alastair’s maniacal laughter that follows echoes in the room. Dean’s hands are shaking so badly that the blade falls out of his hands and skids across the floor.

            Alastair and Lilith’s laughter is loud and braying, and Dean sets his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.

            “Little boys don’t play with swords, Dean."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, so this chapter is literally the worst piece of crap I've ever written. I've kept you guys waiting for so long, and this is all I could give you? I'm so sorry. :( I feel like I can't do justice to this particular part of the story. 
> 
> I will be posting part 2 of this chapter tomorrow (well I suppose that is technically today?)! I've kept y'all waiting for long enough--it's time to get the show on the road. 
> 
> Sorry for disappointing you guys! The next part will be better!
> 
> -SJ xx
> 
> P.S. Follow my tumblr at primadonna-winchester.tumblr.com for updates on this story. :)


	36. The Stand Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You took everything from me.”

            As Alastair and Lilith laugh over his humiliating fumble, Dean realizes something. Cas’s death--it wasn’t their fault. When it boils down to it, this is all due to his actions. He had talked to Cas when he wasn’t supposed to, he had let him in the house when he wasn’t supposed to, and he had fallen in love when he wasn’t supposed to. Dean _knows_ what they had was a premature love story—a story with only a few chapters and an abrupt ending, like the author had abandoned their novel before the best chapters were written. Now, the story is over, and so is Cas. 

            Dean has never been more reckless; he has nothing left to lose. He knows he is going to die. With Cas dead because of him, he doesn’t really want to be alive anyway. What is the point of living when it’s your fault that the person you love isn’t living too?

            “Who do you have left, Dean? Your mother is dead, your brother and father don’t remember you, and your little lover here? Well…” Alastair gestures behind him, and Dean doesn’t look, even though every cell in his whole body is aching to see. If he looks, if he sees Cas’s blue eyes shut in death, it will all be over. Once he sees, it becomes real.

            “Shouldn’t have brought your boy toy over, sweetheart.” Lilith sneers, her disgusting red lips curled in a lascivious grin. She bends over and retrieves the blade that has skittered to a stop at her feet. Her low cut dress leaves nothing to the imagination, and Dean decides in that moment that breasts do not appeal to him. He is repulsed.

            Lilith takes the dagger and spins it around on her talon-like fingertips. Meanwhile, Alastair is examining Castiel’s corpse again, with furrowed eyebrows and rising concern. He can see that Alastair is pressing his fingers to Cas’s wrist, but he doesn’t have the mental capacity to think on it further.

            Something about seeing Cas’s limp hand in Alastair’s disgusting grip makes something break inside of him. Cas was pure, innocent—entirely untainted. Alastair has touched Cas, has dragged his vile hands all over him and bled the life out from him. It is seeing this that finally makes Dean snap. He needs to put an end to Alastair. He will never ruin another life again.

            “Alastair.” Dean growls out, eyes dark and murky like roiling thunder clouds. “Fight me, you bastard!”       

Alastair chuckles in that disturbing way he always does, and Dean feels that maniacal laugh rattle around in his bones.

            “You want me to ‘fight’ you when you don’t have a weapon? I don’t think that’ll be much of a fight there, babe.” He pauses, rubbing his stubbly chin with stained hands as he looks up at the ceiling. “You know what? Lilith, give him the sword.”

            Dean stands stock still, shocked into unmoving silence. Lilith gives Alastair a questioning look, but throws the blade at Dean’s feet.

            “And take the coat off his boyfriend there—I can’t fight him while he’s naked—I’d get too far too distracted.”

            He ignores the lewd comments, and gulps in air in rapid succession. He shivers as he picks up the metallic weapon from the floor. He doesn’t want to be wearing Cas’s coat when he dies.

            He can hear Lilith wrestling the coat off of Cas’s body. The _rustle-rustle_ noise it makes is full of memories, and Dean didn’t know sounds could hold a thousand words, but suddenly he’s remembering every conversation, every laugh shared, every longing look….

            Lilith throws the worn coat at his chest, and he doesn’t look at the red stained fabric for very long, because one glance already has tears dripping down his pale cheeks. He shrugs the coat on, squinting his eyes shut as he tries not to remember, as he tries not to think about _how Cas’s scent is still in the stitching, and how his warmth is still in the seams…_

Lilith scampers out of the way gleefully, giggling and clapping her hands as she leans against the wall. Dean’s hands are still trembling slightly, little tremors that he can’t control, but he’s stable enough to hold the blade. Alastair goes over to his table of horrors, and Dean hears the metallic creak as he opens up his toolbox. Dean doesn’t know the full inventory of that toolkit, but it is wide and deep, and could easily contain a number of weapons superior to Dean’s.

            Alastair selects a sword of sorts a little bigger than Dean’s, which unnerves him slightly, but he still holds white-knuckled to the silver handle of his blade. Alastair starts circling Dean like a vulture closing in on its prey, and Dean shuffles on his aching feet, trying to look like he has an inkling of what he’s doing, when obviously he doesn’t.

            Alastair is grinning, his smile blood thirsty and insane, and it brings back so many goddamn memories that Dean really doesn’t want to relive. Flashes of memories come back to him: the first time a hand was laid on Dean with that same lecherous grin, the very first violation, the first brutal beating, the first punishment, all while he was just a kindergartener –  helpless and small, only wanting his mother. He remembers screaming in the darkness; cold, confused and bleeding in places he had never bled before. So much pain swirls in his brain, and it fuels his rage like gasoline on an open flame. He is murderous.

            “You stole me from my family. You stole my life, my hope, my future. You stole my mother, my brother, my father…I was five, Alastair. I was only in kindergarten. You stole…” his voice cracks, “you stole Cas, too. You took everything from me.” He pauses, struggles to gulp oxygen down his constricting throat, emotion warping his voice and threatening his composure.

            “And now, you’re going to pay for what was stolen.”

            Dean lunges.

* * *

 

            _It even looks evil,_ Balthazar thinks as he looks up at the ivy covered house dimly lit by the orange tinted street lamps. _Are you sure this is the house Cassie talked about?_ he questions himself. It _is_ right across from the library, and the two neighboring properties are vacant—he checked. This has to be the one. The ominous house is illuminated by the yellowish moon, casting dark shadows that look like skeletons rising from their graves. The metallic scent of ozone singes his nostril hairs, the air fresh from the storm. There is a fog hanging about now, and honestly, Balthazar couldn’t have created a better set for a horror movie if he tried.

            He shivers as he walks up the cracked, poorly maintained sidewalk, fingering the handle of the gun in his pocket. He isn’t nervous per se—as Balthazar told his cousin earlier, he got caught up with some bad shit in the past—he’s just…apprehensive. He has no idea what he’ll find, and he’s really hoping it’s not the worst. His cousin is the only person he’s actually given a damn about after the alcohol and the drugs, and he really doesn’t want to lose him after they’ve finally reconnected.

            The front door is dirty, with dirt speckling the bottom and splinters in the wood throughout. He raps firmly on the door, once, twice, a third time. He waits, waits for a whole minute before giving up. He moves stealthily to the back of the house, but he stops mid crouch when he hears the echo of a yell coming from what he presumes is the basement. It is all confirmation he needs—he runs to the back door, and he shoots the lock off the door ungracefully—nothing like in the movies—and kicks the door down.

            As Balthazar runs through the doorway, he is nearly pushed over by a blonde woman blazing past him and outside. He yells after her, wondering what she is running from, but she keeps running in her stiletto heels, which would normally be hilarious to him, but right now is really fucking concerning.

            “Castiel!” He yells, bursting through the antiquated piece-of-junk house. He doesn’t care that he’s knocks over jars and vases as he rushes through the house—all he can focus on is finding his cousin. He spots the door to the basement, and he runs over to it, almost tripping on the worn down shag carpet. He flings open the door, and rushes down the stairs.

            It is silent.

            Balthazar observes three things at once.

            One, his cousin is lying bloodied on a table on the far side of the room.

            Two, there are two men collapsed on top of each other on the floor, and there are two swords beside them—one of them being his.

            Three, no one is moving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ..........um.  
>  I think I have earned the title of most cliffhangers ever written in a fanfiction, don't you think?  
> Wow.  
> Aside from that, I really tried to inject Dean's emotions into this chapter. Hopefully I was successful?  
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, lovelies! Thanks so much for the support! I love you all so much! <3
> 
> -SJ xx  
> P.S. Follow my blog at primadonna-winchester.tumblr.com for updates on this story :) You can go under the navigation tab, and find The Library tag. I try to keep all my followers updated on my schedule!


	37. The Horror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I have no one else!"  
> ___________________  
> Artwork by the lovely Xoe! You can find her at supernaturaleveryday.tumblr.com! Thanks so much, Xoe!! I love it!

Today's fanart is by the lovely Xoe! Check her blog out at supernaturaleveryday.tumblr.com! 

 

            There is a groan.

            It is a broken groan that sounds like the crackling of gravel, but it’s a groan. 

            Balthazar’s horror turns quickly into hope, the abrupt transition between emotions leaving him with spiritual whiplash. In his panicky haze, he dashes to his cousin’s side, wanting the fragile sound of life to have come from him. His blood curdles in his veins as he sees Castiel lying still on the table—far too still. Balthazar grabs his chalky wrist, his hope dying, wilting, _crumbling_ as he feels the cold skin. He can’t bear to search for the pulse he knows isn’t there, because he _knows_ he won’t find one. He has seen a few dead bodies in his day, and Castiel’s stiffness and pallor are clear signs that he’s gone.

            Balthazar wants to break down, to fall to the dirtied ground and bash his fists against the floor, but something in his mind reminds him that Castiel would want him to soldier on, to seek out Dean before he mourned. Gathering the shreds of his sanity, he turns away from his still cousin to assess the two men on the ground. He is confused, for the man on top of the pile has Castiel’s trench coat on, which is now mostly a crimson color in which Balthazar knows far too well. The weight of that particular color settles into his bones heavily.

            He takes a shaking hand (of course, Balthazar will always deny his trembling just as he will the tears streaming down his face) and reaches out to the trench coat clad body, and shakes it. The man shifts slightly, rolling over to show his face. Balthazar knows who this is—he can identify him immediately by looking at the naïve, horrified eyes that scream of a stolen childhood. He can see the green irises, and even though a majority of his thoughts are wishes that the blue eyes across the room would be open instead of them, he is still relieved to find the man living.

            “Help.” Dean pleads, staring up at the unfamiliar face above him that has unexpectedly become his savior. Balthazar can’t speak, stunned into a horrified stupor, but he grips Dean’s cold hand and heaves him to his feet. As soon as he is standing, Dean collapses again, hitting the floor with a loud smack that startles Balthazar out of his inaction.

            “Cas.” He can hear Dean whispering, and the amount of pain in that tone is astounding to Balthazar. His voice is raw and bleeding, the whimpers pouring from his body like rivulets of blood. Dean sounds like the whole world has crashed in on him, and the absolute utter brokenness of his tone fucking breaks Balthazar’s heart.

            “No, no, no…” Dean’s litany is quiet and soft, like the pattering of rain on a rooftop. His voice gets louder as he crawls over to where Castiel lies, and Balthazar knows he should stop Dean from moving, but once again, he’s frozen. Dean’s crawling leaves a trail of red behind him, which concerns Balthazar because Dean is bleeding, and he needs help, but he can’t move to help him. He watches as Dean hoists himself up to lean on the table, wincing as his wounds gush more blood.

            As he witnesses Dean grab Castiel’s hand, now completely wracked with sobs, Balthazar feels like he’s intruding on something deeply private. Dean is weeping, tears dripping onto the stone cold flesh of Castiel’s wrist. Balthazar has to look away, because he swears that he is going to break down into a mess if he looks at his cousin any longer. Out of everything that happened on that night, Balthazar will remember this the most.

            “No, Cas, please. Don’t leave me. I have no one else!” Dean has buried his face into Castiel’s chest, weeping loudly into the fabric of his dress shirt.

            Balthazar looks away, giving them their privacy, and back over to the man left on the floor. He had forgotten about him in the shock of his grief. The old man is covered in blood, staring up at the ceiling with a blank gaze. The man is obviously dead, although Balthazar has never seen a dead body with a depraved smile before. Indeed, his pale lips are tilted upward in a disturbing grin, and it awakens a deep seated instinct telling him to distance himself from this evil man.

            Something about the disturbing nature of the man snaps him back to reality, and with shaking fingers, he pulls out a cellphone to call the police.

* * *

 

            Dean has never seen a dead person before.

            He’s talked about dying, been told he’s going to die, and come close to dying himself, but he has never seen an actually deceased person in his life.

            It is maddening how sickeningly similar a dead person looks to a sleeping person. It’s a cruel joke of the universe, the dead looking like the sleeping. Dean wishes their skin turned black, or they turned into ashes--anything that undeniably shows their newly deceased state--because the speculation that they might just be sleeping is too much for him to contemplate.

            Cas looks like he’s sleeping.

            In the harsh light of the ambulance, Castiel looks like he’s just taking a nap. He’s just resting his eyes for a bit, protecting them from the blinding fluorescent light.

            Dean and Cas are lying side by side in their gurneys. It had been quite the struggle to pry Dean off of Cas when the police came. He had howled, gripping on tight to Cas’s body like he was clinging to the edge of a cliff. There had been so much yelling, so much chaos, and Dean was half delirious with blood loss and sorrow. They had finally broken Dean’s grip on Cas, thrusting him onto a gurney and strapping him in as they prodded him all over, asking him questions that he didn’t want to answer. What he wanted, was for them to answer his question: Is Cas okay?            

            Their reluctance to answer his question was answer enough. Dean watches through blurred vision as the paramedics hover over Cas, trying to piece him back together.         

            He reaches across the space between them, his hand squeezing through the row of paramedics to clutch Cas’s hand dangling off the side of the gurney.

             “Stay with me, Cas. I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO SORRY for the wait, my lovelies!! I got sick last weekend, and I really wasn't up to writing. I haven't had time to write until this weekend, and even then, I was short on time. My apologies for the shortness of this chapter--I was tired and I wanted to go to bed, but I stayed up till midnight writing this for y'all. Hopefully I didn't disappoint. Sorry for the overall crappiness of this chapter, although all of my chapters are genuinely crappy. XD Please stick with me! 
> 
> Much love,  
> SJ xx


	38. The Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dean Winchester. My name is Dean Winchester."

             The last time Dean was at a hospital, he was young. He can’t quite remember what it was for, or exactly how old he really was, but he remembers the smell.Hospitals smell a specific way, and the particular odor is quite difficult to describe. They smell sort of like cotton, or maybe they smell like Alastair’s basement, or maybe they smell like death—Dean can’t really describe it. All he knows is that the smell is sickening and it scratches his throat as he breathes it in.

             For some reason, the walls of the room he’s in are green—it’s a putrid shade of green, and for the life of Dean, he cannot figure out why in the hell somebody would’ve picked the wretched color. He’s in a hospital bed, pristine and crisp white sheets and all. He lifts his arm, and finds himself attached to something. There is a tube running from a needle in his arm to a bag hanging above his head. The crook of his arm stings where he’s connected to this bag of mysterious liquid, and he panics and rips the needle out of his arm. Instantly, his head starts to feel like a swirling mess, and he decides not to attempt to stand up for the moment.

             Although his head is still whirling, it isn’t incapacitating enough to prohibit him from thinking. Thinking was probably the worst thing he could do.

             Dean stares at the god-awful walls, his mind dancing around the inevitable. This reality he’s in — the reality in which Alastair and Cas are dead – is so unexpected and astounding that his brain just won’t accept it. His brain is also rejecting something far more sinister, but his mind cannot even conjure up the word to name what he’s done.

             These concepts are for adults, and Dean isn’t one. One might argue that age constitutes adulthood. Surely a 25 year old man is an adult. Yet, Dean doesn’t feel like one. There must’ve been a mistake. Dean isn’t an adult, of course not. Fate has dealt him the wrong cards; he isn’t an adult, not yet, and he doesn’t know what to do with this adult life he’s been handed. He is still five; he’s still a Kindergartner learning the alphabet beside his best friend, Benny.

            Dean still feels as old as he was the day he was ripped from his family. He feels like everything would just _go away_ if he could climb into his mother’s warm bed and snuggle into her chest. He feels like this – what he’s done, what he’s lived through—is just a nightmare that he can be jolted from by a clap of thunder; like he can awaken in an instant with a throaty cry or a sudden gasp. This isn’t a nightmare, and Dean knows. This is his life, and he has to live it.

            Dean has to live with seeing the light drain from Alastair’s eyes as he stabbed his blade through his pasty white throat. He has to live with Alastair’s blood on his hands—literally. He looks down at his chapped hands to find them still stained a rusty red color.

            He has to live with the memory of Cas’s limp and broken body, lying on that table like a doll. A beautiful ivory china doll with gorgeous eyes, lying in a perpetual state of stillness.

            He shakes his head, as if to dislodge the poisonous thoughts that have taken root in his brain. Dean can’t think of these things—he can’t.

            His mind is really fuzzy, like when his leg falls asleep but inside his head, and the green walls are turning black…

            Dean’s last thought before he falls into the void is: _I’m free._

* * *

 

            There had never been a case like this in Lawrence. Dr. Steven Barnes would even go as far to say that a case like this had never occurred in the history of Kansas.

            Dean Winchester has been missing for 20 years.

            He even remembers tuning into the news 20 years ago, grimacing at the image of Mary Winchester sobbing and pleading for the return of her son. The whole of Lawrence still had a soft spot for the green eyed little boy that was lost to the world.

            This man couldn’t be Dean.

            Except it was.

            There was a testimony from the man who found him, and now, staring at the sleeping profile of the injured man, he sees that the similarities are undeniable. Dark blonde hair, a spattering of freckles, and a pert nose that had even been present at the age of five. The man knows that if Dean were to open his eyes, he would see candy apple green irises peering back at him. Dr. Barnes is astounded. Medical school could’ve never prepared him for this.

            It is like standing over a ghost. Because that is what the idea of Dean Winchester is—a ghost. He is just the ghost of a bright eyed child, occasionally sobering people as the memory of a faded MISSING poster drifted into their minds. He is the town’s worst tragedy, gaining publicity from all over the country as the search for Dean Winchester blazed on. Eventually, all the hullabaloo surrounding the heartfelt case ceased, leaving the parents of the missing boy distraught and wracked with grief. He remembers occasionally stumbling into one of the Winchesters on a grocery isle, or at the drug store, or at the post office—anytime he saw them he was reminded of that cherubic face that was lost so long ago.

            Now, as the doctor stares at the man they had mistakenly labeled as unidentified, he feels a sense of awe. He rubs his stubbly grey chin with chapped fingers, attempting to figure out how to handle this unprecedented situation. Just as he’s about to walk out of the stagnant green room, the heart monitor beeps as the patient’s heart rate suddenly spikes. Dr. Barnes moves quickly to his side, assessing the man for any immediate signs of distress.

            Lo and behold, as he hovers over his patient, pale lids flutter open to reveal those gut wrenchingly familiar eyes. Dean Winchester’s eyes.

             “It’s okay, it’s okay, you’re okay, I’m here to help you.” He turns on his _I went to med school_ façade, smiling gently as he tries to calm down the man. The patient just nods very slowly, eyes shifting around as if he’s already looking for an escape route. “You’re at St. Michael’s Hospital in Lawrence, Kansas. I’m Doctor Barnes, and I’m going to help you. Can you tell me your name?” The doctor asks gently, trying to hide the curiosity from his tone.

            “Dean Winchester. My name is Dean Winchester.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOODNESS, I have so many things to say! 
> 
> First off, I apologize for the lateness of this chapter. I would give you the multiple reasons why I haven't been active recently, but I really don't think anyone wants to hear them. 
> 
> Also, I haven't responded to the comments on the last few chapters, and that's mainly because it actually takes A LOT of time for me to do so. I try to come up with replies that make me seem like an actual human being and not a robot, and most of the time, it takes a good 45 minutes to reply to all the comments. From now on, if you want a comment replied to, please write that in the comment. Something like, "Please reply." Would be just fine. Even if you don't get a response, just know that I read every comment and appreciate each one! I love you all! 
> 
> Lastly, please follow my blog at primadonna-winchester.tumblr.com for updates on this story! :) I'll love you forever! 
> 
> Hopefully this chapter wasn't a let down! :( Sorry if it was! 
> 
> Read, comment, and kudo, darlings!
> 
> -SJ xx


	39. Heaven Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> :) :) :)

            It’s a rainy day in October when Detective Walker knocks on the white door of the Winchester household. The house looks like it’s sagging under the weight of the sky, the lawn is bushy and overgrown, one shutter hangs limply from the frame, and white paint has chipped from the cedar shake shingles. The house is sad looking, neglected as it sits upon the crisp grass. The brisk autumn breeze whips crinkled leaves at his body, as if to escort him from the premises. He shivers in his black trench, and raps on the door again. If it wasn’t for the high publicity surrounding the case, he would’ve just passed this task over to his colleague. This case though, he wants credit for.

            When Doctor Barnes called him from the hospital, he knew this would be his big break. The vanishing Dean Winchester might just be lying in a hospital bed over at St. Michael’s, and they had about an hour before the ravenous paparazzi would somehow get a hold of this news. As soon as he got the call, the detective had jumped up from his desk and picked out the infamously empty Winchester folder from its dusty place in the bottom of his desk drawer. He had hopped into his car and sped over to the hospital, a smile on his face the whole way. He would be renowned for this.

            When he got to the hospital, Dean was in the “High Security” area, and he had to show his badge just to get in. He had been asked to identify the boy, and as he hovered over the spindly body, he pulled the picture from his folder that had been broadcast around the United States, and everyone went silent. This boy was Dean Winchester, and he had been missing for 20 years.

            While the Detective was conversing with another shell-shocked nurse, Doctor Barnes came bursting through the door.

            “The boy has confirmed his identity. He is indeed Dean Winchester.”

            Immediately, he was dispatched to notify the family, his cohort, Detective Robinson ordered to tag along. Now, his partner is sitting in the car, drinking his coffee and listening to Van Halen on the radio.

            The Detective’s attention quickly shifts from his obese co-worker to the door that is slowly swinging open in front of him. The bedraggled John Winchester who answers the door looks like he just woke up from a nap, which is odd because it’s 4 in the afternoon and he should be working. Adjusting the lapels of his coat, he clears his throat before reciting his speech, “Mr. Winchester, may I come in?”

            The man is jolted from his sleepy state, and lets him in, asking him, “Is this about Sam? Is he okay?” The man is now alert, his posture straightening as concern takes over.

            “No, Mr. Winchester. This is about your son, Dean—“ before he can finish, John asks a horror stricken question,

            “Did they….find his body?”

            “No, Mr. Winchester. Your son is alive.”

           

* * *

 

            Dean is groggy. There are a lot of beeps coming from the equipment all around him, and _so many_ people have come in and stuck things in him, asked him questions. Why don’t they understand he just wants to go to sleep?

            His brain is on autopilot, only answering simple questions, and thinking simple thoughts. He is alive. He is free. He is safe. Of course, it hasn’t registered to Dean that he can see his family now, having been accustomed to the thought of never seeing them again. He wouldn’t even be able to fathom that thought, after two decades of missing them. His mother is dead, and he longs for her even as he lies in this hospital bed 20 years after the last time he saw her.

            Dean isn’t even sure he’s alive right now.

            Maybe Alastair killed him instead of the other way around, and he’s bleeding out on the cement floor of the basement. He’s imagining all of this, the doctors, the freedom, the safety. Dean has met his demise at the side of his angel in a dirty basement, and none of this is real.

            Except it is.

            The first word he hears from his father is his name.

            He turns his gaze slowly to the doorway, expecting another orderly to jab him with more needles. Except this isn’t an orderly.

            “Dean.”

            Recognition slowly paints Dean’s face, like the onset of a sunrise. The scruffy beard and greying hair is new, but the steel eyes and gentle smile are the same. His father.

Beside him, paused in the doorway like a perfect, surreal statue stands his golden haired mother, tears streaming down her face as she pushes through the doorway.

            “Dean!” She wails, rushing to him like there are only seconds before he’s ripped away again.

            “Mommy? Daddy?” Dean chokes out through an aching throat. Tears cloud his vision, and he wishes they wouldn’t so he could see their faces better. Suddenly, he’s wrapped in a glowing warmth, and he must be dead, he thinks, because his mother’s warm embrace is _heavenly_. She’s holding him tight to her bosom, and Dean feels five all over again as he sobs into her chest. His father is crying too, and Dean has never seen his father cry in his whole life, but he’s doing it now. His mother is crying so hard her words are warbled, but Dean can make out, “My baby,” and “I love you,” repeated over and over. He’s clutching onto his dad’s leather jacket so hard his knuckles are numb, but he fears that if he lets go, they’ll disappear.

            Words escape him as he clings to his parents. No words can describe his joy because these are his parents, the people he dreamt of every night, the people he cried and screamed for in the darkness and hopelessness of that goddamn basement; these are the people he thought he’d never see again. The room is a mess of teary endearments fragmented by sobs--the ugly green room that smells like _babies._ And suddenly Dean remembers what the hospital smells like because of the last time he was in one. _Sammy._

            He’s tall. Dean can see that over his mother’s shaking shoulder. Taller than Dean, probably. He looms in the doorway uncertainly, a huge smile across his face that Dean instantly feels like he knows. His hair is shaggy and longer than Dean’s, and his skin is darker than Mom or Dad’s. His brother is crying too, salty tears dripping onto the hospital floor.

            He whispers as he stares right into his brother’s hazel eyes.

            “Sammy?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY A HAPPY CHAPTER, AM I RIGHT???
> 
> Not gonna lie...I cried while writing this. It's the first time I've ever cried while writing. I guess I'm really attached to these characters...how embarrassing ;) 
> 
> I really hope you enjoy the fluff, lovelies! It's been a long time coming! I'd really love to hear what you thought of this chapter, so leave a comment, or send me a message at primadonna-winchester.tumblr.com! 
> 
> Lots of love,  
> Savannah :) 
> 
> P.S. This chapter is a gift to my lovely beta and friend, Tabbie. Thanks so much, darling! Happy birthday!!! :)


	40. Heaven Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I just couldn't be that cruel ;)

            His brother is taller than him by quite a bit. He has gentle hazel eyes that belong on a puppy, and brown hair that looks silky soft. He is not what Dean imagined, yet he is. He’s Sammy, and he’s so perfect. He is worth those years of agony. He is so worth it.

            “Dean?”

            Dean’s black and white world is exploding with color. First finding out his mother is still alive, and now finding his brother intact? It’s surreal. No amount of imagining could’ve prepared Dean for the joy of seeing his family again. As he stares at his crying brother from the clutches of his parents, he imagines watching his brother grow up. He is so angry that he missed watching Sammy turn into this person he is now. He wants to grab Alastair by his ratty shirt collar and spit, “Fuck you,” in his face, but with a shiver, he realizes that Alastair is dead.

            Dean killed him.

            _No, stop. Don’t think about it._ Dean scolds himself through the screams of blood stained memories that claw at his tender brain.

            His brother is still looming awkwardly in the doorway of his hospital room, unsure and uncertain as to whether or not he’s welcome.

            “Sammy, come here.” Dean croaks, fingers beckoning for the brother he fought so hard to keep alive. Sam rushes to him, rushes to the brother whose face is new, but so very _Dean._ God, Dean had longed for this moment. He had envisioned it so many times—lying on the cold floor of Alastair’s house of horror, starving, bleeding, and crying. This moment has surpassed his wildest imaginations, has exceeded all his fantasies—his brother is hugging him, and he’s _breathing and healthy and strong..._

Dean doesn’t know how to function, how to properly express his happiness in relief in words, so he just cries some more. The reunited Winchester family hold each other tight and cry for a long time.

“I thought you were dead.” Dean mumbles into his mother’s warm shoulder as she strokes his hair. “I thought he killed you...I thought you were dead for so long…”

            Mary sobs even harder, clutching her son to her bosom as she silently vows never to let him go. She will never let her baby go again.

            They stay clustered together for a while, all intertwined on top of Dean’s bed. There are few words spoken. Enough is said between vice-like clutches and tearful endearments. He’s lying up in his bed, his mother lying beside him, Sam and his dad seated on the sides of the bed. He’s never felt this warm, this loved, and it takes its toll…Dean falls asleep.

_His wrists are sore, rubbed raw by some kind of rope that’s securing his hands behind his back. He’s somehow suspended above a scene unfolding underneath him, and he stares on in horror as he takes in what’s happening._

_Cas is lying on that wooden table, trench coat bleeding red as Alastair stands above him, knife glinting from the light of the waning bulb dangling from the ceiling. Dean closes his eyes as Alastair makes another incision, feeling vomit rise in his throat as tears ooze out of his shut eyes._

_“Dean! Please, Dean!” Castiel is screaming, his cries echoing in the suddenly cavernous, infinitely large basement. He’s screaming his name, screaming for his salvation. Dean struggles in his bonds, tries to yell back to Cas, to tell him he’s coming, but no sound will escape him. He remains suspended in helpless silence._

            _“Dean, don’t leave me. Please, don’t leave…” His cries cease with a sickening crack, and Dean has no idea what Alastair has done, but he knows it’s fatal._

Dean awakens with one word on his lips, “Cas.”

            He throws back the covers that his parents had presumably tucked around him, noting their presence in the room as he sits up. Mary is lying in one chair, John in the other, and Sam is nowhere to be seen. Dean looks at the needles in his arms, alarmed. Are these people trying to hurt him, too? He grabs the needles and rips them out of his arm with a jerky movement. He swings his leaden legs over the side of the stiff hospital bed, flexing his toes in their sock clad state.

            He stands up, wobbling and almost face-planting as he tries to center his balance. He feels nauseous and light headed, but it’s of no import. He knows what he has to do.

            Finally gains some stability, Dean pads quietly out of his hospital room. He doesn’t see any hospital personnel in the hallway, so he walks quietly towards the door with the glowing red sign above it. When he opens the door, he finds a fluorescent lit stair case.

            Somehow, through a combination of sliding, tripping, and walking, he makes it to the end of the staircase.

            “Cas, Cas, Cas…” He’s mumbling, near incoherent now as he breathes heavily. He trudges out into the quiet main floor, right past the sleeping front desk man and right out the front door.

            “Cas! Cas!” He’s yelling, delirious in his search for him. He’s got to get back to that house…has to save him…

            It’s snowing, Dean realizes with muted shock, and the stars twinkle in the sky above, smiling sadly down on the poor broken boy below them. The last thing Dean remembers are the stars.

* * *

 

            “Must’ve wandered off in the night…”

             “So stupid…John, we could’ve lost him again.”

            “Mumbling in his sleep…Cas?”

            “Found him outside….delirious.”

            Dean gets disjointed pieces of conversations happening above him, but all he really knows is that he’s cold. So very cold…He falls back asleep again.

* * *

 

            He knows he’s dead.

            It’s really quite sad, actually, Cas thinks, floating in the black abyss of mortality. He’ll never get married, have children—hell, he’ll never even graduate college. The afterlife is quite disappointing, he determines. His pastor will be significantly devastated when he finds this dark void of nothingness instead of God’s Promised Land.

            His family will grieve over him, he’ll be buried in the plot besides all his relic family members and Gabriel, and his funeral will be stuffy and poorly attended. He can honestly say that he hadn’t wished for death, nor had he expected to die going into Alastair Grey’s house to save Dean Winchester. He wasn’t planning on cutting his life so short, right before it even really began. Although he’s not too disappointed. With death comes tranquility, right?

            Although, he’s 99% sure that you’re not supposed to feel pain in death, so what is this horrid throbbing all over his body? Where the hell are all these disembodied voices around him coming from?  He’s also certain that death isn’t supposed to be so goddamn noisy…

            There are beeps and machine clicks, mumbled voices he can’t make out, all penetrating the soundless bubble of Castiel’s assumed deadly state.

            And then, he hears it—that voice, and he hopes he isn’t dead.

            “Cas, please, stay with me.” Broken and pleading, soft and familiar…he knows that voice.

            He opens his eyes to see bright green above him.

            “Dean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many people believed Cas was dead, so I must have done my job well, huh? I could never do that to my babies, alright? I'm not Satan! ;) 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, so sorry for the wait! Send me your responses to the chapter at primadonna-winchester.tumblr.com, or comment below. Also, I'm SO close to 1000 kudos! Could you please share this story so it can get to 1,000 kudos by next chapter?
> 
> I love all of you darlings so much! xx
> 
> -SJ 
> 
> Pssst...someone should make some sort of artwork depicting the scene in the hospital with Dean and his family all huddled together...if someone makes this I will probably fall in love with them... <3


	41. The Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean finds out he likes bagels, and Cas's fate remains in the balance.

_He’s like a snake, with slatted dark eyes and a forked tongue. He hisses, oozing venom from his mammoth fangs. “Couldn’t even save your boyfriend, could you?” His words constrict him like a python, squeezing the life out of him with every harmful claim, every guilt inducing taunt. Dean wants to die, wants to feel oblivion after so much blinding pain. He lets the life bleed out of him, the air seeping from his lungs as his lips turn purple. He wants to go, he wants to leave this place once and for all…_

_He can see a pale hand hanging off the side of the table, painfully still. Ironically beautiful crimson drips down the ivory canvas of Cas’s wrist, hitting the cement floor and adding to the collection of Dean’s blood spattered about the concrete. He sees that hand, sees his beacon of hope lying dead on that table, and it’s all his fault. He deserves to die, not Cas. With one last pleading whimper, Dean gives into peaceful death, its cold hand guiding him into eternity._

It feels like someone has just dumped a bucket of ice water over him, he’s shivering so much. He’s not dead, but Cas is. His parents have found Dean after all these years, but Cas’s parents have just lost their son. It’s all his fault, _it’s all my fault!_ Dean feels putrid bile crawl up his throat, and he leans his head to the side and retches into a conveniently placed basin. This feeling that is running rampant in his body, he can’t identify it. There isn’t a word for this emotion, the feeling that he’s to blame, that his life has been traded for another. All he knows is that it’s like a slow poison, an itch in his veins that he can’t scratch. _Cas is dead and I’m not._

            It’s dark in Dean’s hospital room, and he squints to make out the figure sitting in the chair beside his bed. He recognizes golden hair, and suddenly that inexplicable feeling is replaced with an all-encompassing surge of love _._ His mother is alive, and she’s here. His lips quiver as he tries to contain his joy. He needs to feel her warm touch again, needs it like he needs oxygen, so he climbs out of his crisp bed and tiptoes over to his mom.

            “Mommy?” He whispers, petting her soft sweater lightly to alert her of his presence. Her eyes blink a few times before opening, and a smile like the dawn alights on her face.

            “Hi, baby. What’s wrong?” She asks, tucking a stray hair behind Dean’s ear.

            “I had a bad dream.” He leaves it at that. She doesn’t need to be burdened with his nocturnal torments.

            “I’m sorry, darling. Come here.” He sits beside her and rests his cheek upon her chest, tears silently dripping down his cheeks. He had dreamt of this for 20 years.

            Dean falls asleep in that chair with her, dressed in only a hospital gown but swaddled by love.

* * *

 

            In the morning, he realizes he’s magically been teleported back into his bed. Sam is looking at something in the chair next to him, and his parents are nowhere to be seen. Dean shifts in his bed, wiping the sleep from his eyes as he adjusts to the fluorescent lighting. Sam looks up from— _wait, what is that?_

“Oh, hey, Dean. Er, uh…Mom and Dad went to go get breakfast. Bagels.” Dean has no idea what ‘bagels’ are, but he doesn’t want to ask his brother in fear of feeling stupid. He nods his head, heat flushing to his cheeks for some reason.

            “Hey, so…I just wanted to say that,” Sam ducks his head and his cheeks flame redder than Dean’s, “It’s good to have a big brother, ya know?” Dean smiles bashfully, and he feels warm and so goddamn happy. He stares at his shy brother, and he knows deep down that it was all worth it. Every day of Alastair, every day of abuse and torture, it was worth it.

            “It’s good to have you too, Sammy.” Sam nods, a huge smile crossing his face at the nickname.

            “Mom and Dad told me you used to call me that… Sammy. I never let anyone else call me that.” Dean’s smile matches Sam’s in magnitude.            

            _So very worth it._

            In the middle of his and Sam’s happy moment, his parents come back with something that smells really, really good.

            After breakfast, Dean decides he really likes bagels. Also after breakfast, Dean gets asked a life altering question.

            “Dean, honey, who is Castiel?”

            It’s like Alastair’s steel running over his skin, and the words hit him like a slice to an artery.

            “Cas?” His mother nods.

            “Where is he?” He tears off his blankets and rips out the needles from his arms, standing up on his sock clad feet unsteadily.

            “Dean!” They’re yelling at him, pulling him back down on the bed somewhat forcefully.

            “Who is Cas?” His dad asks, brows furrowing as he looms above Dean’s bed.

            “Where is he??” Dean yells, fighting against Sam’s firm hold.

            “The police just came and asked for you—we told them you weren’t up to talking with them right now.” Mary soothes, brushing her hands over his hair in a calming manner.

            “Let me talk to them!” Dean begs, hysteria creeping in his brain as he realizes the implications of this. They need to talk to him about Cas…

            “Are you sure?” Dean nods, coiled like a cocked gun in anticipation. His dad steps out of the room for a minute, and then he comes back, this time accompanied by a harrowed police officer.

            “Mr. Winchester, we’d like to speak with you about Castiel Novak.” Dean’s heart is in his throat. Could this mean…? Or would he have to speak about his death?

            “Is he alive?” Dean blurts, the words drawn out of him with otherworldly force.

            “Yes, but—“ Dean is already out of bed, bolting past the man with strength garnered from some ancient reserve.

            “Cas!” He yells, running through the hospital hallways, his gown flowing behind him as he searches for him.

            “Castiel Novak?” A kind, wrinkly faced woman questions. Dean nods hurriedly, and she points to a room down the hall.

            It’s like he’s running through water, or maybe falling off a skyscraper, but he flings open the door to Cas’s room, out of breath and heart pounding furiously.

            Castiel is glowing, beauty and grace radiating from his pale skin even in his sickened state.

            “Cas.” Dean whispers.

            That unexplainable feeling fades away, and a new feeling taking its place. Its name is just as foreign: love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter! I tried to make it better than the last few, and I hope it showed. :)
> 
> Oh dear, this story is very close to coming to an end, my darlings. I'd say a few more chapters, and then it's done. If y'all would like a fluff-filled sequel, let me know in the comments. 
> 
> Follow me on tumblr at primadonna.winchester.tumblr.com for updates on this story!
> 
> -SJ xx


	42. The Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh boy oh boy
> 
> this is so short because I am shitty...please forgive me! I had finals in both high school and college (PSEO) this month and things were just crazy!

            When Dean’s tired eyes fall upon the bandaged figure of his savior, his lungs suddenly forget their purpose. All the breath in him whooshes out in one giant gasp, and on impulse, he lunges closer to Cas. His hands quiver, not knowing what to do, where to touch…His eyes are wide and as green as ever, the vibrant shades of concern and adoration liquefied in his irises.

            At the moment, Dean doesn’t care that his dressing gown is wide open in the back. He threw out the ideals of modesty long ago—he couldn’t afford virtues in hell.

            His hands continue to tremble as he tentatively reaches out to touch Cas, just to make sure he is warm, and alive. Just as his quaking fingers touch the rough stubble on Castiel’s jaw, his parents (plus Sam) and a barrage of nurses burst into the room.

            “Dean, honey—“ His mother starts to implore, her eyes protective and weary. His father stands behind him as a silent vigil, ready to step in to protect Dean at any moment—from what, he doesn’t know.

            “Sir, we’re going to have to ask you to move away from the patient—“ Something in Dean snaps. He is utterly exasperated with being ordered around. He wants to see Cas, and he is going to.

            “No.” He seethes, grinding his teeth as he stares with steel at the nurse.

            All the occupants of the crowded hospital room all blink in surprise. From the back of the room comes a light female voice from somewhere in the back of the room that Dean doesn’t recognize, “Castiel is the one who saved Dean. Just let him visit in privacy. He’s been through a lot.”

            His parents looked like they’d rather hurtle themselves off of a cliff before doing what the person has suggested, but Sam escorts them out with a gentle hand. His little brother gives him a small smile as he exits the room. Dean can’t wait to find out what it’s like to be a brother. He’s fantasized about it a lot.

            The nurses stay though, insisting that they have to check Cas’s vitals as well as Dean’s. A particularly anxious looking nurse makes Dean sit in a wheelchair and hook him up to something called an “IV”, and makes him promise to not rip it out. Dean reluctantly nods. Then, he is left alone. The hospital room has a draft coming from the ceiling, and Dean shivers in his scanty gown. He moves closer to Cas subconsciously, so close that he can’t resist reaching over to touch Cas’s face once more. Dean’s breath comes out in stuttered little gasps, relief stunting his breathing as he stares at the rise and fall of Cas’s chest. He doesn’t remember ordering his hands to do so, but his fingers slowly move down to parched lips. He feels warm breath against his skin, and he shutters. Cas’s nose twitches, and Dean smiles. He removes his hands from Cas’s face reluctantly before whispering, “Cas, it’s Dean. I’m free…I’m free, Cas. You, you saved me.” His voice breaks and wavers as he forces the words out of his constricting throat.

            The beeps of the machines connected to Cas concern Dean as he shifts in the chair beside the unconscious man. He’s got a huge bruise on his right side from…Dean starts to shake again, the memories slithering back like poisonous snakes. Alastair had shoved him hard onto the ground, and he can remember getting so very angry, and seeing the blade glistening with Cas’s blood— _Cas’s_ —on the floor…and he just can’t stand it any longer. Dean shakes his head to dislodge the thoughts, but he can’t escape them. Crimson flashes of misery are attacking his brain, and he has to bite his lip to keep from crying out.

            It’s so cold in here, so very cold, and Dean just wants to feel that Cas is whole, and alive…

            _Screw the wheelchair,_ he thinks vindictively. He shakily stands up before carefully lowering himself down on the stiff hospital bed beside Cas.

            The beeps from the machine become slightly more erratic, and Dean panics. His throat starts tightening again, and he stands up in a hurry, hands fluttering at his sides as he tries to figure out what to do. The incessant beeping picks up speed, and Dean is just about to yell for someone until he sees blue peeking out at him.

            “Dean.”

            And Dean is back beside him, nervously hovering his hands over Cas, wondering if he can touch him again or not. The decision is made for him when Cas’s hand reaches out blindly and fumble for Dean’s. He brings Dean’s hand up to his lip, and presses a soft kiss to the skin there. Cas keeps his mouth there for a few more seconds, and whispers, “You’re alive. Thank God.” He clasps Dean’s hands in his, breathing shakily with his disbelief.

            Dean is crying, and he doesn’t know why. His heart is leaping against his bruised rib cage, and he bites his lip to suppress his sobs.

            “Dean, where is he?”

            And with that, Dean’s blood freezes in his veins. He visibly stiffens, and Cas’s eyebrows furrow in concern.

            “I killed him, Cas, I finally killed that bastard.” His voice hitches towards the end, and Cas shifts in his bed.

            “Dean, can you come here?” Castiel tugs at his hands, beckoning him to come closer, and Dean feels like he’s going to melt into a puddle on the floor, but at the same time he’s ten kinds of terrified. He cautiously scooches forward, curious and afraid as to what Cas is going to do. Cas sits up, and slowly, as not to frighten Dean, reaches out to grasp Dean in his arms.

            Dean absolutely fucking melts. Every last bit of tension in his body fades away as he turns to putty in Castiel’s arms. He doesn’t care that he can feel every bruise and cut on his body—this is something that he needed, and he can’t verbally thank Cas for giving it to him. As Dean nuzzles his face (holy mother of god, what is he doing?) into Cas’s shoulder, he knows that this thing between him and Cas is something he will never have between anyone else—the bond between the savior and the saved.

            “I thought you were dead.” The words kind of spill from his mouth uncontrollably. It’s true though—and the vast relief he feels as triggered the terrible memories of Cas lying on that table.

            “I’m right here, Dean.” Dean breathes out a shuttering breath, and presses his face into Cas’s shoulder even more. He knows this isn’t normal for two friends to do—but after Cas almost died for him, Dean figures the lines between them are a little blurred now.

            Castiel finally releases him, but still gathers Dean’s hand gently in his palm.

            “Did you find your family?” Castiel asks eagerly, hope bright and beautiful in his eyes.

            “Yes,” Dean whispers with a faint smile, “My brother is very tall.”

            Castiel throws his head back and laughs, but then suddenly looks to one of the machines beside him and groans.

            “What is it, Cas? What’s a matter?” Dean asks, alarmed and terrified.

            “They’re pumping more drugs into me, I can feel it.” Cas sighs, closing his eyes for a few seconds.

Dean is still afraid, asking with horror, “Can’t you stop it?!”

Castiel giggles, and shakes his head no. “It’s fine, Dean. I’m probably gonna fall asleep soon…” His words start to slur. As his eyelids start to droop, he suddenly grabs Dean by his shirt collar and plants a fat kiss on half of his lips.

            “Love you…” Is all Dean thinks he hears as Cas succumbs to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. Me? Writing fluff? Practically unheard of! I hope y'all enjoyed the sappiness!! 
> 
> I AM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG FOR ME TO WRITE--WRITER'S BLOCK HAD ME IN ITS EVIL CLUTCHES! 
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments, or send me a message on Tumblr at primadonna-winchester.tumblr.com! 
> 
> -SJ xx


	43. The Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays, lovelies!!

            Dean coming back from the proverbial dead is probably the most unexpected thing that has happened in the entirety of Sam Winchester’s life. This Dean isn’t like the one in the pictures that lives in a box beneath his parents’ bed. No, this Dean is different. His hair is darker, his eyes duller, and his body lanky and tall, but nowhere near muscular. He is gaunt, skeletal, and it scares both Sam and his parents. They are comforted by the fact that they can get some meat on his bones now that Dean has been returned to them.

            There is one other thing that is different about this Dean.

            He clearly loves this near comatose man named Castiel, who Sam has  _met before._  Dean knew Anna’s brother for who knows how long, and Sam was just one phone call away from a reunion. This knowledge itches at the edges of his mind, constantly nagging at him as he paces outside Castiel’s room. His brain already feels like it’s been scrubbed raw by steel wool—the intense emotions brought on my seeing his brother again having short circuited his brain. He’s positively exhausted, and he desperately lusts for his spot beside Anna in their warm bed.

            As he grapples for his hold on consciousness, he reviews the events of the past few days.

            _Sam is sitting at the dinner table with his family, tensions running high as his Dad stares at him with obsidian, stone cold eyes._

_“So, Sam, how’s the weather in Cali?” His mother awkwardly inputs, false enthusiasm ringing in her maternal tone as John grumbles in the seat beside her._

_“Uh, the weather is fine. It’s hot...all the time.” Nice, Sam, really stellar._

_His mother nods, faking interest as she mulls over this new information._

_“Oh, well that’s nice. Do you ever go,” she gulps down her wine awkwardly before continuing, “surfing?”_

_If it weren’t so tense in the dining room, he might just laugh. Sam Winchester surfing? The odds of that were about as high as his brother coming back from the dead. He sobers up at that, and shakes his head at her inquiry._

_“No, law school doesn’t really allow for much recreation.” He knows he sounds like an absolute jackass, and he scolds himself for it because this is his mother, but…_

_“Oh yes, Stanford. What are you studying nowadays?” His father sits up straighter in the mahogany chair, the archaic wood creaking as he strikes a predatory pose._

_Sam also adjusts his posture into that of a defensive one, clearing his throat before beginning._

_“Criminal Justice.”_

_Mary smiles behind her wine glass, silently acknowledging the reason behind his choice._

_Sam had been very distant from his parents the last three years, after fleeing off to Palo Alto that one night in May...He knows he hurt his mom. It pains him to this day, but she had become tired, exasperated, and it was her choice to stay with John. She still loved him—and so did Sam, he digresses, but just not in the same way. He doesn’t regret leaving, but he does regret wounding his mother._

_Sam eyes John’s glass of Whiskey wearily, knowing exactly how bad things could get if he downed more of that shit._

_“Now, how’s that girlfriend of yours…Jasmine? Jessica?”_

_Sam grips the table with white knuckles, eyes burning as tears rush to his eyes. Of course they would bring up the one topic Sam wanted to evade more than any other._

_“Jess.” He pauses, and swallows down the entire flute of wine before continuing, “She died.”_

_Mary gasps, clutching her chest, and even John looks surprised._

_“Oh Sam, darling, I am so sorry!” His mother throws down the napkin laying across her lap and stands up to go hug him. Sam doesn’t reject the embrace, and he bashfully breathes in the comforting scent of his mother as he barely restrains his tears. Carefully, he situates his arms around the mother he missed so dearly, trying to be tough as he mourns the love of his life._

_Mary reluctantly lets go, and sits back down in her seat, never letting go of her son’s hand._

_Sam really missed his mother._

_“It was a house fire.” Sam really doesn’t know why he’s revisiting this, but he feels some odd compulsion to just let it out. “I was out studying. It was before finals, and she knew I had to cram for my Forensics class. I came back from the library at 12 AM, to find our apartment had started on fire. They don’t know what caused it.”_

_Mary’s eyes water as she looks down at her lap, and John stares gruffly back at his son._

_“I’m sorry, Sam.”_

_Sam looks up at his father, utterly surprised by his unexpected empathy. Sam nods back at him, still shell-shocked by this turn of events._

_“Uh, thanks. It was six months ago. I’ve…moved on.”_

_Just then, there is a knock at the door. Mary mutters under her breath, “Really? During Dinner?” John gets up to answer it, grumbling the same sentiments._

_Sam and Mary sit at the dinner table, Mary smiling at her son for about a minute before John comes stumbling back into the room with an indescribable look._

_“Mary, Sam,” his breath is shaky, and his hands quiver too, “they found Dean. Alive. They found him.”_

_Mary stares at John, trying to assess if this is some cruel joke, and Sam does the same. Mary seems to determine he’s not jesting when the man who must be with the FBI comes to stand behind John in the doorway. Mary looks back and forth between the officer and her husband, before standing up and demanding, “Where is he?”_

It’s been a long few days for Sam, to say the least.

            He tries not to worry over the fact that John Winchester will have an extremely difficult time accepting his son’s apparent homosexuality, because honestly, the way Dean looked at that Castiel? Oh boy, John was in for a trip.

            Sam also attempts not to worry about the fact that there will be a huge trial looming in the future for the Winchester family. He knocks these thoughts out of his head forcefully, shaking his shaggy hair. This only serves to push these thoughts to the back of his mind, still present as he continues to pace outside the hospital room.

            Moments later, he hears a familiar voice gasp, “Oh my God,” before a red-headed woman comes racing down the corridor.

            “Anna?”

            Her fiery hair whips around to reveal her harrowed face, and Sam can see the clear question in her eyes.

            He approaches her slowly, as one would approach a frightened animal. He grasps her tiny porcelain hand and whispers, “We need to talk.”

* * *

 

            When Dean wakes up again he finds a nurse at his side poking at his arm. And woah, when did he fall asleep next to Cas??

            Terrified of what she’s injecting him with, he tries to stand, tries to get away from her as flashes of Alastair try to invade his brain.

            “No! No!” He screams, and he can see that Cas has awoken beside him, but he can’t stop seeing the same image of Alastair’s tools glinting in the light of that one lightbulb….

            Cas hurriedly whips the heavy hospital blanket off of his lower half and clambers to Dean’s side as the terrified nurse tries to calm him.

            Cas calmly tells the nurse that he’ll handle it, and she backs away with trepidation. Dean’s family bursts into the room, obviously alarmed, to find Cas cradling Dean in his arms as he wracks with sobs. Mary moves closer, as if to comfort him, her hand wavering as she hovers it above Dean’s shoulder. Cas shakes his head, as if to tell her that he has the situation in control.

            He knows that Dean’s family won’t be able to understand their connection. He knows from years of taunts that the hurtful words thrown at Dean will be homophobic slurs of all kinds. He will help Dean get through this. They need each other.

            After Dean has settled down, his tears starting to dry on Castiel’s hospital gown, he whispers, “I’m sorry,” into his shoulder.

            Cas smiles gently, and murmurs back with no hesitation, “There’s nothing to apologize for, Dean. Nothing at all.” He clutches him tight one last time, trying to ignore the racing of his heart, before releasing him.

            Dean’s family still stands in the doorway, shocked and unsure of how to react.

            “I'm fine.” Dean says quietly, staring at the hospital floor as his cheeks flush red.

            “Alright, honey.” Mary responds just as quiet, before herding everyone else out of the room.

* * *

 

            After Cas has managed to get Dean to take his injections, Cas lies back down in his bed, and Dean perches on the end of the mattress.

            “So,” Cas begins, trying desperately to stem the urge to reach out and grab Dean’s hand.

            “Are you okay? What did,” Dean gulps, “he do to you?” Cas closes his eyes sadly, pained by the look of pure terror on Dean’s face as he says this.

            “I’m alright, Dean, I promise. How are you? Are you well?”

            Dean plays with the plastic hospital band on his wrist before muttering, “I’m fine, Cas.”

            Castiel notices with chagrin that Dean is blushing.

            “So, how is the family?” Cas asks, still eyeing Dean’s worn hands with abandon. He just wants to reach out and clutch those hands, to feel some part of Dean to assure him that he has succeeded.

            “They’re just like I always imagined them, Cas. And Sammy…he’s so tall.” Castiel chuckles, and Dean smiles, and it feels like he’s seeing the sun after centuries of darkness.

            “I can’t imagine what this is like for you, Dean. I’m so happy for you.” Castiel’s smile is light, gentle, and Dean’s cheeks are getting redder by the minute…

            “Thanks, Cas.” He’s hiding his face again, and fidgeting with the blankets.

            “Dean….did I do something…?”

            Dean sputters, shaking his head, “No, no, it’s nothing.”

            Castiel eyes him suspiciously, wondering why Dean is so embarrassed. They’ve been through literal hell together—nothing is embarrassing territory anymore.

            “Alright. Do you want to go back to your room now? Your family probably wants to see you.” Is that disappointment in Dean’s eyes? Castiel can’t quite determine…

            “Oh, yeah, you’re probably right. I’ll just….bye.” Dean stumbles off the bed, wincing as he lands on his aching legs. Cas watches him go, eyebrows furrowed as he tries to figure out what he’s done to make Dean so goddamn embarrassed.

            As soon as Dean leaves, Cas relaxes into his bed wincing as he reclines. He shouldn’t be replaying the image of Dean blushing, shouldn’t be imagining what he could do to make him blush all over…He knows that he will never be with Dean like that—Dean is the equivalent of a naïve child for God’s sake, and Cas shouldn’t be entertained by such lewd fantasies…

            He decides then that he needs more drugs. He doesn’t want to be surrounded by these deviant thoughts any longer.

            He dreams of green eyes, full lips, and scruffy brown hair, and he knows he’s done for.

* * *

 

            Dean shuffles out of Castiel’s room, feeling a bizarre sense of fear as he leaves familiarity for the unknown. _That’s your family out there, Dean,_ he berates himself as he turns the doorknob to his room with sweaty palms. He can’t shake the feeling like he should be back there with Cas, clutching to him like a scared child. _No, I can do this._

            His mother just swoops him up into her arms, already sobbing for some reason. Her wrinkled hands rub his back, and the tension seeps out of him. He has his mother, and he’s okay.

            “You have to be more careful, Dean. We’ve had to hold back all the reporters—they’re all waiting outside the hospital like vultures. We don’t want them to find you yet.” John scolds, peeping between the slats of the blinds at the hospital entrance.

            Dean’s stomach drops through his feet. His father is admonishing him just like Alastair always did. Is he going to be punished? Would his own father do those filthy things to him? His legs quiver in his hospital issued wool socks, and he stares hard at the ground. Did he escape that hell for an entirely different one?

            Mary sees him shaking, and directs the fiercest glare at John that Dean has ever seen.

            “Shut up, John. It’s fine, honey.” She changes her acidic tone to a coddling one in an instant, reaching over to rub comforting circles into his back. Dean leans into her touch, soaking it in like it’s the touch of God.

            Sam seethes in the corner of the room, glaring absolute daggers at their dad. He sees Sammy’s hand twitch and his mother stare at him pointedly as if to say “back off.”

            Just like an angel, his nurse comes bustling in to “check his vitals and give him his medication”. His family reluctantly hustles out of the room, and Dean breathes a sigh of relief. Suddenly having parents again was actually quite stressful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I apologize for the delay! Hopefully this marginally longer chapter helps make up for it. I hope you all have a wonderful, safe holiday! Follow my tumblr (NEW URL YAY) at um-mishacollins.tumblr.com for updates on this story! :) Leave me a comment below and tell me what you think of this chapter, and I'll love you forever! ♡ -sav


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